


Write Your Lyrics on my Heartstrings

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Musicverse [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, Oral, Past Child Abuse, Pining, cross dressing, not a songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a famous musician who believes the notes he plays are the meaning of life. John is a lyricist with a beautiful voice and little self-esteem. When Sherlock hears him singing he becomes obsessed with him, but John only hears Sherlock’s music. How can Sherlock reach the man when he simply doesn’t have the words?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock stepped off of the stage, ignoring the demand for an encore. He didn’t know why they kept asking. He’d been performing music since he was twelve years old and had yet to bow to the whims of the _audience_ ; those fickle sodding fools. He passed his guitar to one of the crew – he didn’t know their names or faces, just picked them out by their uniform – and headed into his dressing room. His violin was waiting. He doubted his fans would believe it if they knew he composed his various musical styles on a violin, but it was the truth. He had played it more than once on stage, but only ever for violin solo’s in otherwise rock-based instrumental songs. He had a varied range of styles that he played. Tonight was a rock opera concert. Tomorrow he’d be playing classical music, though he’d be on his cello instead of his preferred instrument, the violin. Next week he had a blues concert in which he played the base guitar. His variation created fandoms of all kinds and ages, and he had released more records to date than any other musician in the word.

Sherlock quickly checked his violin for tune and brought it to his chin. Everything disappeared when Sherlock played. The audience, the sweat on his body, the demands for his time, the ridiculous lyrics he sang mindlessly because his record company insisted vocals were necessary; nothing was more important then the notes on the music stand and their expression of every deep thought or feeling he had. In everything else in life Sherlock was cold and aloof, but his music was passion, fire, desire, success. Though most often the lyrics written for his songs were completely contrary to what he had intended, he sang them anyway. A true fan of his music would ignore the words, which he made no secret were written by others, and pick out his soul from the notes he played.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade called, opening the door to his dressing room.

Sherlock dropped his bow, grabbed a hairbrush from the table in front of him, and chucked it at Lestrade.

“I am _composing_. I’m not to be disturbed when I’m composing!”

“First off, we have to clear out of here in an hour, so get your Royal Prickliness packed up. Second, don’t throw shit at me, I’m your manager not your effing slave. Third, if you don’t stop insulting the lyricists on stage we’re not going to be able to find you another one.”

“Fine, you write the words. I hardly care what I sing.”

“Truer words were never spoken, though I have to admit I never thought you’d actually _sing_ that song denouncing gay rights when you’re such a flaming pouf yourself.”

“I’m not a pouf, I’m pansexual, and I could care less if men can’t marry men or women can’t marry women or we all have a round-the-world in the garden. Who wants to get tied down to one person anyway? Either they change when you don’t want them to, or they don’t change when you demand it, but either way everyone ends up miserable and divorced. All that matters to me is the _music_. You can put that to one of my tunes and sell it.”

“I wish I could meet the bastard who turned you bitter and string him up by his bits. Pack up and be out of here in 30.”

Lestrade slammed the door and Sherlock scooped his bow off the floor, checking to make sure it wasn’t damaged. Lestrade had startled him and he hated that he’d dropped such a precious item. Carefully stowing away his violin and bow, Sherlock began tossing his other personal effects into his duffle bag; the crew would handle the make-up and such. Sherlock was out in ten minutes, sliding into a waiting car and directing the driver to take him home. While he watched the streetlamps pass by he ruminated over the conversation he’d had with Lestrade. The man had it wrong. Sherlock had no actual romantic or sexual experience to draw from, though he’d had no shortage of offers, especially since he’d taken to the stage. He simply had no interest. He wanked like any normal bloke, but it was usually to stirring music; he wondered if Beethoven had thought someone would someday masturbate to his work? He liked to think the man had done so himself, it made him feel connected to the brilliant composer.

Sherlock dropped the needle into the trash and let himself fall back on his couch, thrilled to ruminate in the bliss of his 7% solution. Cocaine had never helped him write music, but it did give him the peace of mind he often searched for when his roomy flat was too quiet and empty, and his music simply wasn’t consoling him. He rarely indulged, but it was one of those nights.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“The lyricist quit. Again.” Lestrade snapped, slamming down the sheets of music Sherlock had just handed to him.

“So find another. It’s all the same to me,” Sherlock groused. He was in the throws of, thankfully mild, withdrawal three days after his last hit. His 7% didn’t usually trouble him this much. He must have miscalculated…

“Are you listening to me?” Lestrade snapped, “I’m telling you there are no more to be had. We’ve searched, not just in London, but outside of it, too. I’m chatting with blokes online in other fucking countries and no one wants to write for you because you keep announcing their work is shite!”

“I’m famous. It get’s their names out. Remind them that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“Damn it, Sherlock! Fine! Write your own lyrics.”

“If I wanted to write poetry I’d have become a poet, but since I have _talent_ , I leave you to find some bumbling fool to write the lyrics that _you_ insist my songs need. I suggest you check college campuses. I’m sure there’s some English majors there who need to make a fast buck.”

Lestrade paused, looking thoughtful, “You know, that’s not a half bad idea.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was getting frustrated. He had twelve new songs ready, enough for a CD to be released, the sheet music distributed to all the pertinent parties, his fellow musicians had practiced till they were blue in the face (which made them barely acceptable) and he still had no lyrics. His label refused to publish the songs without _words._ As though a few sappy lyrics about a slutty girl or a historical event made a song worth _listening to_. Most people didn’t listen to lyrics anyway. If they did they’d notice that half of the drivel they pumped into their cerebral cortexes was offensive and immoral.

“Where the hell are my lyrics?!” Sherlock snarled, slamming Lestrade’s office door open.

“You tell me. Did you insult the new guy?” Lestrade hung up his phone without saying goodbye to the person on the other end.

“I haven’t even heard the new guys _name_ ,” Sherlock threw his arms into the air and his entire body into a chair, prepared to sulk for as long as necessary.

“Good, it’s staying that way. He’s going by a pseudonym on your record, so don’t bother trying to hunt him down and piss him off; don’t knock him on stage or to the press.”

“He’s late by weeks and you’re _defending him_?” Sherlock gawped.

“He’s a college student, like you suggested, and he’s busy. He promises he’ll get them to us in his own time. Your Royal Pain in the Arse is just going to have to wait.”

“What’s my brother got to do with this?” Sherlock quipped.

“Out! Some of us have real work to do,” Lestrade snarled.

Sherlock stood and leaned over Lestrade’s desk, pretending to be posturing, but he was really getting a glance at the papers there.

“If he doesn’t have them in a week, fire him. I don’t care if you have to write them yourself. I’m _bored_ and I’m going out of my mind. The music is all that’s important anyway. If I loose every fan I have and the record label, I don’t care, just so long as this damned waiting _stops_.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but Sherlock ignored it and stormed out.

XXXXXXXXX

Four hours later Sherlock was banging on the door to the dorm room his lyricist apparently frequented. It was no wonder the man wasn’t getting any writing done, he was completely pissed… and smelled like piss for that matter.

“Where are my lyrics you repulsive sot?” Sherlock demanded.

“What?” The sweaty behemoth asked.

“My _lyrics_. Or are you so inebriated that you actually think your tardiness is acceptable under _any circumstances_. I’m fully aware Lestrade came here begging, but I’m a horse of a different breed. I demand respect and I _demand_ my lyrics! Immediately!”

“John! It’s for you!” The drunken muscle-bound oaf called out over his shoulder.

“Can I help… oh. Oh, you’re Sherlock Holmes!” The man looked surprised and suitably starry eyed.

“Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes, and you’re supposed to be writing me lyrics, not cleaning up your dorm mate’s sick!” Sherlock took a step back from the nasty flannel in the (thankfully sober) man’s hand.

“Sorry about that,” John tossed the flannel into the room, ignoring the sound of more puking from within, “he’s a bit distracting. I’ve been working on your lyrics, but with _them_ , well, I haven’t gotten much done. It’s finals, too, and…”

“If I wanted your life story I would hire someone to write it so I could read it at my leisure. My lyrics. Now.”

“It’s not exactly that simple…”

“I could care less about their quality or content. Present them, such as they are, and I’ll turn them in.”

“They aren’t _written_. I’d love to give them over, but…” John shut the door soundly behind him at the sound of more retching, herding Sherlock back as he stepped into the hall, “Look, I’d pull an all-nighter, but as you can see I’ve got no place to properly write. I’m really sorry to inconvenience you, but I think you’re going to have to find someone else. I can’t even think in the bloody shower because there’s always someone in the next stall bloody _wanking_. I’ve got no privacy, no space, no time, and no fucking _patience left_!”

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise, he hadn’t thought lyricists actually required proper conditions to work in. Surely a library would do? It had a thesaurus in it, didn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” John continued, looking it, “I shouldn’t be taking this out on you, Mr. Holmes, and honestly I’m a huge fan… well of your music that is. Your lyrics so far have been shite.”

“They aren’t _mine_.”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve heard about that, but that’s why I’m so determined to do your music justice by writing something decent. I just don’t know how I’m going to make your deadline.”

“My deadline,” Sherlock informed with clenched fists, “Was a week ago.”

John paled and sighed miserably, “I’m sorry. Find someone else, because I’m not willing to hand you more rubbish. Luck to you.”

He turned and opened the door, the scent nearly overpowering Sherlock, and would have closed it in his face had Sherlock not stuck out his foot to stop it.

“Wait… come back to mine. I have a spare room I use to compose in. You can use that to write, just until you’re done, and I’ll take the den. The room upstairs is soundproofed so we won’t bother each other. The landlady doesn’t mind if I play outside of it anyway.”

“Are you… are you sure?”

“Anything to get things moving _along…_ and provided you take a shower.”

“Gladly. I’ll just grab a few things. Won’t be a jiff.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock could recognize his melodies anywhere, even when sung by the inarticulate and tone-deaf masses on the tube. This, however, was something entirely different. John Watson was in Sherlock’s shower _humming_ his music and doing a near perfect imitation of the actual instruments. This one was mostly guitar, but he had a violin solo, and the sound of the man’s vibrant vocal cord’s wrapping around every crescendo… Sherlock was instantly hard.

John exited the shower dressed in jeans and a light shirt, no shoes, before heading upstairs, still rubbing at his hair with a towel. He seemed completely absorbed and hadn’t even noticed Sherlock. Once the door shut the flat descended into unearthly silence again. Sherlock grabbed his violin and struck up a loud and merry tune, determined to drown out the quiet if it was the last thing he did. After a few hours he packed it up and decided the lyricist could use some tea… and biscuits… and maybe some assistance. Sherlock would bring his violin upstairs, too. Surely hearing Sherlock play the music as it was _meant_ to be would be inspiring for a writer; like Shakespeare standing out on a beach and listening to a storm before writing _The Tempest_.

When Sherlock nudged the door open, tray carefully stowed on the floor so his hands were free, he caught his breath in awe at the unearthly sounds flowing from the room.

 _“As I reach out into the silent sky,_  
I can not hide, no I can not hide,  
The stars they pierce my eyes,  
I am torn and open, rent before you…”

John paused and opened his eyes from where he’d been swaying in the middle of the floor, posture perfect as an opera singer, and snatched up pen and paper from the nearby music stand to jot down his most recent words. Not words. _Music_. Sherlock had never thought words could be musical before, but in this he was clearly wrong. John’s voice brought every syllable to life, made every single note clear and vibrant, as though he were both singing the words and _playing_ _his own vocal cords_.

“Oh! I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?” John asked, noting Sherlock’s presence.

“I… no… tea?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. Do you have honey? It’s good for the vocal chords. If not, it’s fine.”

Sherlock fled downstairs to search for honey, gave up his own kitchen, and pounded on Mrs. Hudson’s door instead.

“It’s no trouble!” John called from the third floor.

“No problem. She’s always lending me… Mrs. Hudson! Honey.”

“You’re sweet, too, dear, but you’re far to young for me,” Mrs. Hudson teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but she went to fetch the honey and that was a relief. He didn’t know how he’d play off going out to get his _lyricist_ honey. It would destroy his reputation if it ever got out. He wasn’t even sure why he was acting this way in the first place.

John, meanwhile, had set up the tray on the desk, pulled out Sherlock’s chair for him, and squatted on a Cajon for himself. Sherlock sat comfortably in the chair, provided John with the honey, and watched him prepare his tea carefully. He would know for next time… would there be a next time?

“You can come here whenever you like, you know. It’s not far from your campus. Are you studying music there?”

“Medicine, though I’m taking music as a minor.”

“ _Minor_! You… you’re wasting that talent… that _voice_ of yours… to pursue _medicine_?!” Sherlock sputtered, nearly spilling his tea.

John laughed, “That’s a first. It’s a waste of time for me to become a doctor and save lives? Ought to pursue a career in music instead? My father would slap you if he heard that, but it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t think everyone who plays an instrument ends up begging for money on the streets or shooting up cocaine in posh hotels.”

Sherlock flushed at the cocaine reference, but quickly steered the conversation back to music.

“Your father doesn’t approve of your gift?”

“My father doesn’t see it as a gift,” John stated with a sigh.

“You have perfect pitch and you’re _two toned_. Have you any idea how rare that is?”

“Not only have I an idea, I’m surprised even a musician of your caliber knows about two-toned voices. The only other’s I’ve heard of were monks,” John looked suitably impressed and Sherlock preened a bit.

“I’m very accomplished,” He informed, modestly in his opinion, “I know how to play every instrument ever made, I have written in over 100 styles and genres, and I have traveled the world to gain tutelage under multiple masters. I have been writing since I was five years old, performing since twelve, and… and… what’s so funny?”

“Sorry, it’s just that you’re so puffed up; like a peacock. I do know you’re brilliant, Mr. Holmes; I’ve heard you play and I read your biography, so I know your history as well.”

Sherlock snorted, “Please, call me Sherlock, and no one reads that bio, it barely sold a dozen copies. Who wants a biography of a man who rarely leaves his flat, doesn’t have orgies, doesn’t do copious amounts of drugs,” to the public’s knowledge, “and refuses to discuss his music?”

“I did. I wanted to know whom I was writing for. The words are for you, after all, not for me,” John grinned amicably and raised his teacup in a mock toast.

Sherlock had never felt more touched in his life; actually Sherlock had never felt touched at all in his life, but that was beside the point. This supremely talented, if apparently simple, man was writing _for him_. He was giving Sherlock his _words,_ and suddenly that meant more to Sherlock than a simple bit of scribble on parchment. Suddenly those words had taken on shape, they had staff lines and hard and soft pauses, and they flowed and ebbed, they formed pictures in his mind. This man was not just a writer, he was a _composer;_ and though Sherlock hardly saw him as an equal, he most certainly saw his opposite staring him in the face. What was that saying about opposites attracting? This man… this man could complete him.

Sherlock placed his teacup down in its saucer and leaned forward, John leaned as well, curiosity obvious on his face.

“You, John, are a musician. Your father should be ashamed for stymieing such talent. Given enough financial backing you might almost be as good as _me.”_

John leaned back, an incredulous look on his face, and then burst out laughing.

“Mr. Holmes, Sherlock, you’re making fun of me!” John laughed, as though it was all right if he was.

“No. I’m not. I’m entirely genuine.” Sherlock blinked, “Of course, I’m only referring to your popularity as a singer. I doubt anyone could be even near the genius I am as a musician.” He couldn’t recall ever giving a compliment out to someone, and this fool was _laughing_.

John shook his head in amusement, “I haven’t the face or stature for a rock star, and I’d better get back to work, or you’ll never get your lyrics. Goodnight, Mr. Hol-Sherlock. I’ll try to be out of your hair by morning.”

Sherlock collected the tea things, confused and intrigued by this odd man, and stood just outside the door with it open the barest crack for nearly an hour. He’d forgotten his violin inside, but he couldn’t move from the spot as John’s melodic voice rose and fell in gorgeous cadence to the pieces Sherlock had written. He brought them to life with his words; perfectly translating the feelings and scenery Sherlock had been imagining when he’d jotted the notes down by hand. He was bringing Sherlock’s music to life, creating emotion where there had been only rhythm, melody, and harmony. Sherlock had never known his music to be incomplete until now, and it was both humbling and irritating. Finally Sherlock slipped the door closed and hurried downstairs to his music stand. He felt challenged. He grabbed his second best violin, tuned it, and began to compose in earnest.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock hadn’t realized John was still there when he finally collapsed on his sofa in a state of near exhaustion. Not five minutes later the door to his flat quietly opened and John slipped in. He seemed equally fatigued and staggered across the room to place a USB drive on Sherlock’s music stand. Sherlock cleared his throat when he saw the man pick up pen and paper to leave a note.

John jumped and met Sherlock’s eyes from across the room.

“Tea?” Sherlock offered lamely.

“Ah, coffee, if you have it. I’ve got a class in two hours and if I crash now it will just be worse for me.”

“Make yourself at home. Put on a pot. Everything’s above the sink,” Sherlock instructed, too tired to move and not arsed enough to care if the man helped himself.

“Thanks, saves me a few pounds at a café.”

John puttered about in the kitchen while Sherlock popped the USB into his computer and pulled up the lyrics. He read them with John’s beautiful, if imaginary, voice singing in his ears. During pauses in the lyrics, when Sherlock’s mind would usually conjure the dulcet tones of his own Stradivarius, instead he heard John’s two-toned humming and the pitter-patter of water from the shower. He blinked, clearing his mind of its wanderings, and headed into the kitchen to watch John curiously. No one had ever elicited such feelings from Sherlock before.

Sherlock studied the body attached to the voice; it was neither plain nor exceptional. John was short, but not stocky; muscular, but not bulky; blonde, but not strikingly so. His eyes and quick smile were his most endearing quality, and Sherlock found himself returning the smile more than once as the man started up breakfast as well.

“You don’t mind?” John asked.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock insisted.

“Eggs for you?”

“Whatever you’re making.”

“Something on my face?”

“Hm? Oh, no.”

“You’re sort of… you’re sort of staring a bit.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Ah… Here’s your coffee. I don’t know how you take it.”

“Black, two sugars.”

“Right.”

John prepared the coffee as instructed and placed it directly in Sherlock’s hand when he showed no inclination of crossing the kitchen and doing so himself.

“You really are a spoiled wanker, aren’t you? Does that nice lady downstairs usually do this sort of thing for you?”

“Yes, though when she’s busy I usually just do without or have takeaway.”

“Bloody hell, no wonder you’re so thin,” John laughed, taking a sip of his own coffee.

John gave the eggs a final stir and dropped them onto two plates, sliding one over to Sherlock.

“Yes, well, if you show up and cook for me perhaps you can fix that, eh?” Sherlock smirked over his coffee and John grinned back.

“You’re serious about me being able to come over and use your flat for writing your lyrics?”

“I see no better way to get them done considering your frankly appalling living conditions.”

“They are that, aren’t they? Well, just make sure and tell me if I start getting on your nerves. I don’t want to impose.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile in response and they both finished up breakfast before John waved goodbye and headed for the tube.


	2. Chapter 2

 

[ **vincentmeoblinn** ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/)

Things went well for a good three months, John coming over to do school work, shower, and write music, while Sherlock listened closely to catch every sweet note of the man’s voice whenever he could. He tried to suggest they become flatmates, but the lyricist had declined stating his scholarship had paid for his dorm and he was tapped out for cash to spend on rent. Sherlock had tried to insist he stay for free, but the man had just shaken his head and dismissed the idea.

Sherlock was determined to catch John’s eye after so long watching him from a distance. He started with the obvious – writing a song inspired by the man himself. Sure enough, John translated his notes into a stirring love song; he even called Sherlock and asked him what gender he preferred the song be about.

“Male,” Sherlock stated firmly, waiting for the obvious to sink in.

“Male?” John chuckled, “You say the strangest things.”

“How so?”

“Most people would say ‘men’ or ‘gents’ or even ‘blokes’, but you say ‘male’. It _is_ about a human, right? Cause I’m not so sure I know what sort of romantic traditions a Vulcan has, and that would make it difficult to write.”

“You’ve never struck me as the sort to mock a person, don’t start now,” Sherlock scolded, only half joking.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m just taking the piss. Drinks later?”

“I’ve got a show,” Sherlock sighed in frustration, “Would you like to stop by after and… get faced?”

John chuckled again.

“What did I say this time?” Sherlock asked, allowing some of his annoyance to filter in.

“Sorry, nothing, it’s just you sounded like you weren’t sure what to call it. I suppose a sophisticated gentleman like you usually has one glass of wine at home before bed?”

“Do you like wine?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

“Not particularly.”

“Then I shall manage to get pissed on inferior alcoholic beverages out of respect for you, my drinking companion,” Sherlock stated, mocking himself a bit to see how it would go.

John chuckled again, but assured Sherlock he wasn’t laughing at him. After the show he showed up, but brought a mountain of paperwork with him. Apparently finals had come around again.

“You don’t mind, do you? Life of a student, you know.”

“Not a problem. Let me know if you need a hand, I’m not familiar with medicine, but Trig, I know.” Sherlock gestured to his math book.

“Oh, cheers!”

The beers were forgotten in favor of studying and Sherlock leaned in close to John to point out variations on technique, breathing in his scent.

“My gosh, you explain this so much better than my professor. I mean, you make me feel dull as a year old whitewash job, but you’re still getting it to make sense. You missed your calling as a teacher, Sherlock.”

“Boring,” Sherlock scoffed, but glowed a bit at the praise, “How’s that love song coming along?”

“Right! Forgot! Finished it earlier. Here you go.”

The USB drive was pressed into his hand and Sherlock relished the momentary contact with John’s ink stained fingers; the markings of a studious man, intellectual hands, so much like Sherlock’s own. Sherlock made his own ink and quills so that he could feel more involved in his artistic process. He’d started pressing them on John, but the (public school educated) man had no idea how to write with a quill and insisted calligraphy wasn’t best for scratching out poems. He kept the inkpot and quill, though, and Sherlock had seen them high up on a shelf in his mate’s dorm room (he’d had to seek him out again for a missed deadline) where his other precious items were; they were next to a signed rugby ball.

“I never thanked you for mentioning me to the press in such a positive light, although I do wish you’d used my pseudonym.” John shifted his books aside, but slid further away from Sherlock instead of leaning into him as he’d hoped.

“You’ll never get famous that way.” Sherlock goaded, hoping a bit of ego stroking would get John’s juices flowing. It always got Sherlock hot and bothered.

“I’m not _trying_ to get famous, I’m trying to get through med school,” John laughed. He had a beautiful laugh, it reminded Sherlock of the sounds of a forest; all noisome animals and wind through the trees.

“You’re wasted on med school, you’re an artist.” Sherlock tried again, scooting a bit closer and offering John a beer to loosen him up.

“So you told the reporters,” John accepted the drink gratefully, “They were near fainting from what I saw on telly. Never heard you say a good word about anyone. I’m starting to think you fancy me,” John winked.

“I’ve got another for you,” Sherlock purred, trying to sound seductive, “take a look at my music stand, tell me what you think.”

John headed over eagerly and was soon humming sensually at the window, his hips swaying seductively. He blushed after a few stanzas and looked up, embarrassed.

“Is this… is this song about… ahhh…”

“Sex? Yes.” Sherlock smirked readily, trying to convey to John just how ready he was to put that music to work.

“Sex?” John looked startled, and more than a bit confused, “Really?”

“That doesn’t come thru?” Sherlock queried, instantly frustrated.

“Not… well… at first it does, but it sort of peters off into…”

“What?” Sherlock leaned forward, irritated that the one person who actually seemed to understand his compositions wasn't appreciating it this time.

“Sherlock? Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think we need to get you laid.”

“Sorry… what?”

“It’s just… whoever she was, she wasn’t worth you writing a song about… sorry, he? Is it the bloke from the last one?”

“Yes, he… no… it wasn’t about a specific _person_.”

“Ah, then that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why this seems more like _tossing off_ than passionate sex.” John laughed.

Sherlock’s face colored. He’d taken _hours_ to write that piece, and he _had_ been masturbating, holding off his own release so he could feel the burning pressure of desire the entire time. He couldn’t believe that it translated so _literally_ to John, and was half impressed with John and half ashamed of himself. That whole time he’d thought he’d been clever with the _accelerando_ , followed by a pounding drum and guitar duet to emphasize the orgasm, a _G.P_., and then a _lentando_ classical violin solo to lull the satisfied man to sleep during his post orgasmic haze. Apparently he’d done what he’d always joked Beethoven had intended with his 5 th and written wank fodder.

“Let’s go out,” John decided cheerily, “We’ll get you that passionate session between the sheets and you can translate it to a passionate session on _musical_ sheets. Then I’ll write you a lurid, bawdy love ballad to go along with it.”

“Both lurid _and_ bawdy?” Sherlock asked, his voice cracking like a teenagers.

“Entirely, if that’s what you want, though I don’t know how you’ll manage to market it.”

“Oh, I’m sure _someone_ will buy it,” Sherlock smirked, lowering his eyelids like they did in movies. He hoped it came off seductive; he was far out of his realm of experience at this point.

“Fantastic,” John replied, utterly oblivious, “I’ll just go home and change then, I can’t go out like this, especially not to a gay club,” John laughed eagerly.

“A what?” Sherlock asked, his lust addled mind not keeping up.

“Sorry, that came out a bit more…” John blushed adorably, “I just meant I want to look my best, not that I think gay people dress a certain way.”

“I wouldn’t know, actually, I don’t know I’ve ever met one, at least not anyone obvious or who announced it,” Sherlock mused curiously.

“Wait… what… I thought… you did say that love song was about two men, didn’t you?” John asked, completely baffled.

“Yes, I specified that, but what has that to do with going to a _gay club_.” Sherlock asked with no small amount of distaste.

“Alright, I’m lost. There was a _load_ of desire and longing in that song, you can’t tell me you wrote it for someone else.”

“What? No, of course not, I wrote it for _you_. Idiot,” Sherlock stated, firmly telling himself not to wince at his unintentional reveal.

“For… me to write lyrics for? Or for me… _for_ me?” John asked, looking somewhere between uncomfortable and amused?

“The second, I think,” Sherlock replied, not at all sure what John had meant by his babbling.

“Oh… you’re having me on, are you?” John looked affronted now.

“No,” Sherlock stated, steeling himself as John seemed to be less than enthusiastic about his announcement.

“I’m… look at me… I’m not… I’m not the type rock stars write songs about… or for… or whatever.”

“Apparently you are,” Sherlock snorted.

“Nope. No, I’m not,” John shook his head, actually looking a bit angry, “and I this is your idea of a joke…”

“I don’t know why you’re cross. Many would be flattered to have my attention,” Sherlock lowered his voice, knowing it had a lovely quality that would translate well to sensual. Enough people had told him that he had a sexy voice to have confidence in that aspect of flirting. Sherlock got to his feet and crossed the room to where John was leaning on the back of Sherlock’s armchair and _glaring_ at him as if he’d said something offensive.

 “Go court them, then. I’m just your lyricist, and maybe your friend, but never someone you’ll be interested in for long, and I won’t be a notch on your bedpost, either.”

“If I disagree with your diagnosis, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked, somewhat sarcastically.

“I’ll counter you,” John replied, the student latching onto the scientific terms like a safety net.

“If I find supporting evidence for an alternative finding?”

“I’ll disprove it.”

“You can’t disprove fact, John, you can only argue it until you look the fool or concede the point.” Sherlock stated, voice hard and determined now. He was in John’s personal space now, and John had straightened, pointedly not meeting his eyes. He was looking at Sherlock’s lips, and the composer didn’t need the telly to let him know what that meant.

“If I walk out of here, right now, and pretend this conversation never happened?” John asked, the muscles in his legs twitching as though he were prepared to run.

 “I’ll kiss you until you relent,” Sherlock whispered heatedly, leaning forward to do just that.

“No, you won’t,” John stated, painfully grabbing the wrist of the hand Sherlock had been raising to card through his hair.

“Why not?” Sherlock scowled angrily, twisting his hand free.

“Because I’ll chin you if you try,” John threatened with all seriousness.

“Whatever for?” Sherlock asked, honestly shocked by the threat.

“Because I’m not gay,” John stated flatly.

John pushed past Sherlock, showing himself remarkably strong for such a short man, and though Sherlock grasped at his arm, his speed was unmarked and he simply strode out of the flat without looking back once. Sherlock was left staring after him, feeling an ache in his chest that he was wholly unfamiliar with. He took up the offending _wanking_ music and tore the sheets up into confetti.

Three days later he sent John a musical score that he had literally wept while writing. It was a tearful Celtic rock song full of lilting melody and echoing harmony. A week later John emailed with the lyrics, a melancholy ballad about two ships from opposing sides during WWII being tossed at sea during a storm and constantly thrown towards each other. The crews went back and forth between being able to see the terrified faces of the other ship’s crew as they grazed each other or nearly collided, helpless but refusing to stop attempting to regain control of their ships, and then seeing nothing but a wall of water between them. Three times they were nearly dashed against each other, and three times they only barely touched, causing a little more damage each time. The song ended by switching to a German woman off the coast, watching the horrifying scene from the safety of a lighthouse tower. She eventually lost sight of both of their ships as they pushed further out to sea where the water would be calmer and, though she tried to find out what happened for years, she died never knowing if they crashed, survived, or were taken apart by the cruel sea in some other way.

Sherlock called and texted a few times, but John rarely replied and was always professional and distant, so Sherlock wrote another slow, sad song. This one was a classical piece, meant to be an opera-like song, though it had no accompanying pieces to make a full score. John replied with a beautiful story about a homeless man who begged for coins on the street; but what he was really begging for was affection from the passers-by. He was so obsessed with every small smile that he saw that he completely missed the true love in the eyes of one soup kitchen attended, who’s smile he had decided was as canned as the food he served. One night the weather became so cold as to be deadly, but it was a holiday and he was drunk on the cheer around him. Determined to see _just one more smile_ he stayed out too long and fell asleep on a bench. He froze to death in the night, never knowing the young man at soup kitchen was waiting for him with a small gift in hand.

Sherlock followed it up with a song that was bordering on tribal in its rhythm and tone, but certainly a heavy metal song, and definitely stating is passionate intent towards the man he was hell-bent on seducing. He would _not_ allow John to continue to hide behind prose and symbolism! John’s lyrics, however, were minimalistic for this song; allowing the focus to be on the powerful percussion solos that served as refrains. It spoke of a desperate chase in which the pursuer had no idea what he was hunting down, but relentlessly searched the world for the source of his desire. Eventually it switched to 3 rd person perspective and ended with him passing a café in an ordinary town. He saw the café but decided not to go inside because he thought nothing so ordinary could contain his hopes and dreams. Inside the café was a beautiful and lonely waitress, who had been waiting her entire life for true love to walk through the doors of the only restaurant in town. The implication being that they would have found each other had the man but ceased his frantic, pointless search and stopped in for a brew.

**To: John Watson  
            Let’s have coffee.**

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
I write what your songs say to me, not what you want to hear from me. **

**To: John Watson  
I’m bored. Let’s have coffee.**

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
I can’t. I have a date tonight.**

Three weeks later Lestrade showed up looking concerned. Sherlock had spent the first week high as a kite and had completely trashed his flat, the second coming down from it, and the third wishing he’d never come back down from it, but too depressed to leave his flat and get more cocaine.

“Bloody hell, I thought I’d find you’d slit your wrists, you know that? Why the _fuck_ have you been ignoring my calls, and what’s with the sad songs? You never write sad songs. You never miss my calls. You never fucking _do_ this shit, Sherlock, the fuck is going on?”

“Stop yelling, it’s tedious.” Sherlock growled from his place on the couch, fingers pressed together beneath his chin.

“You reek. When’s the last time you bathed?” Lestrade grimaced.

“What’s the date?” Sherlock countered.

Lestrade shook his head in disgust, made a face at the drug paraphernalia around the flat, and herded Sherlock towards the showers. He confiscated his razor when he got there.

“How shall I shave?” Sherlock complained.

“Afterwards, with me watching you like a blooming hawk.”

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock slammed the door in his face.

“I’ll be the judge of that! Then you get dressed up real nice; your last record went platinum while you were in here poisoning yourself so we’re going out to celebrate,” Lestrade shouted through the door.

“No thanks!” Sherlock called back as he stripped down and slipped into the shower.

“Not a request!”

Sherlock took his sweet time in the shower, stroking himself slowly and panting John’s name under his breath. John had _been_ in here. He’d hummed Sherlock’s songs while running his hands over his body, wet and covered in soapsuds. Had he gotten off? Probably not, the delicate thing was so careful about Sherlock’s things- and that probably included the shower- and had seemed positively scandalized when Sherlock had borrowed his laptop without asking. Apparently one didn’t do those things.

Finally Sherlock was washed, shaved, dressed, and forced into a fancy dining chair. Well, almost fancy; it wasn’t even a _real_ French restaurant since they’d made no reservation. Sherlock was just deciding that the pasta was probably the safest thing on the menu to order, when the most dulcet tones struck his ears and his eyes were drawn inexorably over to a corner where a couple were dining.

John was here. _His_ John, who he hadn’t seen in over a month, was here in this very undeserving restaurant with a _woman_. Sherlock was out of his seat and headed over in a full fit of rage before his mind could tell his legs to stop.

“Oh, look who else is celebrating his fat che…” Lestrade started, then jumped up in alarm at Sherlock’s demeanor, “Sherlock! Wait! Damn it, if you scare off another lyricist…!”

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing here with… with…?” Sherlock couldn’t even form _words_ he was so incensed.

“My date, Susan,” John introduced automatically, his eyes wide with alarm.

“John?” His date asked eyes round with confusion and a bit of accusation at what probably looked like a lover’s quarrel.

“It’s not what it looks like,” John told the woman, but Sherlock decided he’d take that as meant for himself.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re out _gallivanting_ with _Shirley_ here instead of writing my lyrics!”

“It’s Susan, and you haven’t sent me anything in over a month. I thought you’d found someone else or hit a dry spell.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to find someone else! How could there _be_ anyone else?”

The pause that followed was decidedly awkward and Lestrade decided it warranted raised eyebrows and a follow up of: “Ohhhh!”

“John, what is this all about?” Sally – or whatever her name was – demanded.

“Ignore him, he’s psychotic,” John snapped, tossing his napkin down on his plate and standing.

“I am _not_ psychotic: I’m a high functioning sociopath, if you must know,” Sherlock snapped, far louder than he intended, but that was partly because John had grabbed his arm rather painfully and was dragging him towards the facilities.

“Thanks, Sherlock, that’s going to sound fantastic in the papers,” Lestrade groaned, rubbing his forehead.

Alerted to his surroundings, Sherlock realized several people were holding up their phones and recording their conversation. John pushed him through the bathroom door after growling a request to speak to him in private. John checked the stalls and then flipped the lock on the door.

“What in the bloody fucking hell do you think you’re doing?” John shouted.

“You shouldn’t be here. You should be _at my flat_ , or if necessary _at your dorm_ , waiting for an email from _me_ to write more lyrics for _my songs_. What if I’d sent you one tonight and you were too busy trying to fondle that Sophia girl?”

“ _Susan_. Have you gone round the bend? I’m not going to sit around waiting for your emails like a panting fan. I’ve got a life. I’ve got schoolwork. I’ve got a date and a wish to get off with someone besides my left hand. I am _not_ your ruddy pet!”

“No, you’re my lyricist, and we both know your pursuit of _medical school_ is a waste of your time and talents!” Sherlock snarled, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“I’m flattered, really I am, but what is this really about, Sherlock, because I highly doubt you’re suddenly peeved about me doing what I’ve been doing since the day I met you.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Yes, because my being bothered by your attempts to ‘get off’ with some _female_ aren’t the least bit obvious.”

John blinked, “Unbelievable… you’re still going on about that?”

“Of course I’m still going on about it! I’m in _love_ with you and you’re out with some skank!”

“Her name is _Susan_ and you can’t possibly be in love with me… I’m… _look at me_!” John waved his hands at his person in exasperation, but Sherlock failed to understand his point. He went with more flirting instead.

“I’d do a whole lot more than look if you’d stop being so bloody _difficult_ about it, especially since you profess to be tired of masturbation. For the record, I’ve grown weary of it as well,” Sherlock growled, unabashedly aroused just by being near John.

John didn’t swoon or throw himself at Sherlock as the man had hoped; instead he looked alarmed and stepped back, putting his hands up defensively and changing his tone.

“Look… I’m sorry. Really I am, but I’m not into blokes and I can’t just suddenly become that way because the great Sherlock Holmes decides he wants to slum it for a change.”

“But this is all just **_transport_** _!”_ Sherlock shouted at him in a full rage, hands gesticulating wildly, “It’s just a body, John, it doesn’t matter what it looks like on the _outside_! The parts that make me who I am aren’t in my damnable trousers; they’re in my _brain!_ A mind is the only important part of who a person is, so how can you stand there and define attraction by male and female when your perfect counterpart is _standing right in front of you!”_

“I… that’s… that belongs in a song, I think.” John laughed, but his face looked sad.

“So write it for me,” Sherlock asked softly, unashamed of the pleading tone in his voice.

“I… I don’t think I should. I don’t think I should write for you anymore at all,” John said sadly, shaking his head.

Sherlock felt the floor drop out from him and his eyes shot down to search for how far the fall would be, but it seemed that his feet were still planted firmly on the ugly yellow-green tiles. He looked back up at John, bewildered and wondering how he hadn’t just felt the room move too, but John was staring at his own reflection in the mirror with something akin to loss on his face.

“You… You can’t. I haven’t got anyone else,” Sherlock pleaded, the words leaving his mouth without his permission.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, if it were just about us getting too close as mates, or arguing a lot, I’d find a way to make it work professionally, but such as it is…”

“Then we’ll make it work professionally,” Sherlock insisted, backpedaling as fast as he could, “No more beers or talk of sex, you’ll just come over and write and then go home. Simple as that.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it.”

 _Sociopath, remember?_ Sherlock thought, but he was far past that definition just by the way he was obsessing with John. This was uncharted water, his ship was about to crash, and he couldn’t even see – let alone comprehend - the obstacle he was about to dash himself upon.

“We’ll make it simple. I won’t write anymore love or… love songs. I’ll just stick to what I usually write and…”

“That isn’t going to _work._ Not when we both know what you really want, and not just from your songs. Look, I’ve been in the friend zone before, and it’s a rotten place. I’d just end up leading you on without meaning to, Sherlock, and you’d end up hurting me too, because I’d always be looking for things to be the way they were, and they won’t be.”

“I _need_ you, John. No other lyricist will work with me. You’ll ruin me,” Sherlock tried, going for the man’s soft heart like dogs to a rabbit’s throat, “I’ll lose everything.”

“Maybe… maybe we can still work together by e-mail, then. You scan and send me your sheets like you’ve been doing and I’ll type out the lyrics and send them back for your approval. If you don’t like something, you just email me again. We’ll work it out that way.”

Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hear his voice. Not ever again. Unacceptable.

“I’d prefer it if you recorded yourself singing the lyrics, that way I have them exactly how they’re meant to line up with the song.”

“You don’t need that,” John stammered, confused, “You’re a better musician than I’d ever hope to be, you can line it up yourself. Or I could write it out on sheet music for you, but me singing it for you isn’t… Oh… Oh! Bloody hell, Sherlock, are you in love with my _voice?”_

 “Well, obviously,” Sherlock stated, “You make words sound like actual _music_. What else is there to fall for?”

Instantly, Sherlock knew he’d said something wrong, because John’s eyes went angry, his expression wounded, and he backed up to the bathroom door. Without breaking eye contact, while Sherlock stammered and tried to figure out what he’d said wrong, John flipped the lock on the door and backed through it.

“Don’t contact me again,” John’s words rang like a death knell.

He was gone. John had just left and had cut him off completely. Cursing himself for never having _recorded_ John the many times he’d had the man in his flat, Sherlock chased after him once more.

Shannon – or whomever she was – had apparently decided she’d had enough and was heading out the door with her coat and purse already on. John was calling her back and following quickly after. She’d apparently settled the check already, because no one tried to stop them. Not so for Sherlock, who was stopped by an apologetic maitre d’ and a furious Lestrade.

“So sorry for your subpar dining experience, Monsieur Holmes, we will be happy to make your wine complementary…”

“Did you just seriously have a very _public_ shouting match, about things I _won’t_ repeat here, with your lyricist in the _loo_? Worse yet, did I just hear him _quit_? Are you out of your goddamn _mind_? We’re going to be in every paper this side of Europe by tomorrow morning…”

“Move out of my way this instant!” Sherlock roared. Both men stepped aside, looking shocked and affronted, and Sherlock nearly knocked another waiter over in his haste to chase after John.

John was across the street with Sonya– or whatever she called herself – and some other gentleman who had waylaid them. Thanking his lucky stars for that homeless beggar, Sherlock started across the street as fast as his long legs could carry him. He saw the man’s gun at the same instant the man saw him and started to panic.

John was getting mugged, and thanks to Sherlock’s interference it was about to go horribly wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

John and what’s-her-face had been in the process of handing over their belongings when Sherlock ran up. Now the mugger thought himself caught and his gun swung towards Sherlock, going off with a terrifying bang. Sherlock dodged instinctively, though he doubted it had anything to do with the man missing – he had shot wide. Finding himself without a gun trained on him, John leapt forward and tackled the man as though he were playing rugby.

“Sherlock! Run!”

Sherlock darted forward again, heedless of John’s instruction, only to be struck on the back of the head by an apparent accomplice. He was dazed but conscious, however his stumble to the ground distracted John who apparently thought him shot if his shouting for help was any clue. While John was attempting to disengage the mugger and help Sherlock, the mugger got his arms loose and punched John soundly in the face, once again raising the gun. John’s date screamed and hit their assailant in the face with her handbag, dazing him a bit, even as the accomplice planted his foot in Sherlock’s back and held him pinned. The gun fell to the ground and went off again just as John was being shoved off of the would-be-mugger. Frightened, the man took advantage of John being off kilter and fled down an alley, his partner in hot pursuit.

Sherlock was on his feet instantly, adrenalin pumping with intent to hunt down and kill the persons who had accosted _his_ John, but not five paces down the alley and he heard a frantic cry for help behind him.

“He’s been shot! Somebody help! Please! I… I can’t find my mobile!”

Sherlock spun about and headed over to where John was kneeling back on his feet on the sidewalk, a shocked look on his face as he held a hand over a bullet wound in his shoulder. It was bleeding out the back as well, so Sherlock pressed his hand over that end and dialed 999 with the other.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock paced the hallway of the hospital waiting room and cursed the day he’d met John. If he hadn’t the man wouldn’t be in his fourth hour of surgery at that minute, Sherlock’s life would have continued aimlessly on without heartbreak to mar it’s tedious pace, and the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard wouldn’t be at risk of being silenced forever.

 _No. I can’t think like that._ Sherlock reminded himself.

As though reading the thoughts from his face Lestrade piped up, “He’ll be fine. He was still conscious when the ambulance came, right? He’s made of stern stuff, has to be to put up with you.”

“He doesn’t put up with me,” Sherlock snarled, throwing himself into a chair, “He hates me, and now he’ll hate me more because I got him shot.”

“Not your fault…”

“It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been there. He’s injured because of me.”

Lestrade seemed at a loss as to what to say so he just rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder comfortingly. Sherlock pulled away in disgust. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted a two-toned demigod singing in his shower while he stroked the bow across his Stradivarius.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade shook Sherlock awake and informed him that John was awake and receiving visitors. Sherlock shook his dead leg out and hurried towards the room Lestrade told him John had been placed in. He walked in and took in the sight of a man, clearly John’s father judging by his features, screaming at the top of his lungs. Apparently he was under the misguided impression that John was clumsy, unintelligent, and of substandard genetic material. Clearly he required the longtime loan of a mirror. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and employed one of the few talents he had outside of music to deduce that refuting the man would produce only more yelling, no matter how valid Sherlock’s argument might be. Judging by the two women, mother (distant) and daughter (gasping for a cigarette) leaning against the wall, this was a normal day for them and warranted no interruption despite their brother’s infirmed state. Judging by John’s very stony and unfocused gaze facing the wall opposite him, this was something he no longer fought at all.

Well, there was more than one way to win a battle. Sherlock marched across the room towards John’s bed grabbed his face in both hands and planted a hungry, if inexperienced kiss on his lips. John’s right hand flew into Sherlock’s hair and fisted it painfully, but he didn’t pull him away. The entire room stilled in shock and then the father once again spoke up.

“Bloody hell, Nancy, what did you smoke while pregnant to give us _two_ queer children?!”

Nancy didn’t answer, but Sherlock removed one hand from John’s face to give the man the two-finger salute, before putting it to better use stroking John’s thigh. To his absolute shock, John slipped his tongue out and prodded Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock moaned eagerly, mouth opening in the process, and then they were stroking each other’s tongues experimentally. Sherlock determinedly slid his hand up to John’s crotch, which was apparently the last straw for his family who fled the room with various noises of disgust and horror. Sherlock knew that was his cue to withdraw, but John was becoming hard under his palm and it occurred to him that the bullet was in John’s left shoulder, which was problematic since John was left handed. He could hardly satisfy himself at that rate, and had already expressed annoyance at having to do so. Instead, Sherlock moved the blankets aside, John’s gown up, and fumbled to get a grip on a cock from the opposite direction to the one he was used to.

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” John moaned, hips moving just a bit in apparent enthusiasm, “I thought you were shot, too. I couldn’t… I… oh, fuck that’s good!”

“Mmmmm, John,” Sherlock breathed, nuzzling his face into the man’s neck. He’d wanted this for _months_.

“M’close… Sherlock… oh, god…”

John was keeping his voice barely above a whisper, but Sherlock could hear the need and excitement in it. He shifted on the bed so he had better access to his own aching need, snatched up John’s good hand, and pressed it to his clothed erection. John rubbed at him awkwardly, but between that and the sheer repressed need Sherlock was on the edge in an instant. He reached down- pushing John’s hand away- and quickly unbuttoned his trousers, pulling himself out of his pants. John had looked down, eyes wide with a combination of excitement and apprehension, and grasped his cock the second it was free as though afraid he’d lose his nerve if he waited.

“Oh, god, s’smooth.” John breathed, but Sherlock was too far-gone to puzzle his meaning as he came hard across John’s fingers, biting his free hand to stop his cries.

John followed a second later, head falling back on the bed, mouth open in a silent scream. He gasped a moment, and then stilled, blinking at the ceiling sleepily. Sherlock grabbed a box of tissues and set about fussily cleaning himself up. As an afterthought, he cleaned up John, too. The man was likely uncomfortable and would have difficulty cleaning himself. Lovers probably did these things for each other even when one wasn’t injured.

“M’s tired,” John drawled, giving Sherlock a lopsided grin.

Sherlock smiled softly back and found the button to lower the bed. John was asleep before it was all the way flat and Sherlock left it partly raised out of concern for his shoulder. Once he was certain that John was comfortable Sherlock settled down to relax in the nearby chair. When a nurse came in to ask him to leave he used his fame shamelessly and she fluttered out with a signed slip of paper and a promise to enjoy tea with her on her break if he could remain for the night. He pretended to be asleep when she showed up with the tea, though she stayed in the room staring at him as she drank it anyway. She left him a mug behind and he forced the cold brew down, grateful for what little it could give him.

John slept late into the next morning, and the nurses kicked Sherlock out to help him use the facilities and change his bandages. When Sherlock returned John was looking sheepish, but Sherlock decided cheerfulness was the way to go.

“If you want I can get you something from a restaurant. I hear hospital food is absolute shite.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m on a special diet.”

“I don’t mind sneaking it in.”

John laughed, “I think it’s for my own good, Sherlock.”

“Well, if you insist,” Sherlock sighed dramatically and John laughed out loud, and then groaned in pain.

“Should I get a nurse?”

“I don’t think so…” John peered under his bandages, “Though perhaps this is why doctors make the worst patients. I probably shouldn’t be checking my own injury.”

“Well, if you do bother to be a doctor, I’m sure you’ll be a superior one and a superior patient as well.” Sherlock stated, the words distasteful on his mouth.

John shook his head in amusement, “You really hate the idea of me becoming a doctor, don’t you?”

“I just don’t see the reason _why_.”

“Mostly my father, you saw how he is-”

“-That’s a terrible reason to become a doctor.”

“-But also because I love to help people, and I’m very good at it.”

“You’re also a good lyricist and a damn near magnificent singer. Don’t take what I say lightly, John. You may be the first person I’ve ever complimented in my _life_.”

“Your life? Really?” John smirked.

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell, you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes._ ” Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes, “Why must you constantly doubt me? I don’t do things by halves, John. Ever.”

“Yes, I’m starting to see that now,” John replied quietly, then cleared his throat, “Speaking of which… about… what we did.”

“I’m aware that you’ll require more stimulation that mutual masturbation on a regular basis,” Sherlock informed calmly, “I’m sure I’ll catch on to the basics of sexual intercourse fairly quickly. I could read up on it if you prefer, but since you’ve expressed that you’re equally inexperienced with men I thought it best if we learned together.”

“I… that’s… awfully considerate of you.” John replied. Sherlock thought he looked constipated and wondered if that was something lovers would concern themselves with. He decided it was a bit more personal than he wanted to discuss at the moment.

“Was that the first time you’ve ever…?”

“Yes, though I thank you for pretending not to notice how awkward it was.”

“Yes, well, with a bloke?”

Sherlock blinked and waited for John to explain himself better.

“Was that your first time doing something with a bloke or your first time ever? I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just you talk about sex as though it’s completely unknown to you.”

“It is. I’ve never had an interest beyond self-stimulation before. It seems so sloppy, and I’ve never had a reason to care for someone else’s pleasure, which makes involving another person pointless.”

I… are you even interested in sex?” John stammered out suddenly. “I mean, if you aren’t it’s fine, because I’m fine with no sex. I mean, you did say you were only interested in my voice or mind or something along those lines. I’m not really sure I understood you, actually, but you don’t have to do anything sexual with me if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock frowned, he wasn’t sure he was following John. The man seemed upset, though, and that was to be avoided at all costs until he was fully healed. Sherlock decided smoothing the situation over was best and tried to be agreeable.

“Don’t worry about that for now,” Sherlock soothed, patting his hand gently, “We have ages to discuss sexual relations. In the mean time, if you need anything all you have to do is ask.”

“I… actually that works for me. Thanks.”

Sherlock smiled, relaxing now that it seemed he’d found the proper solution for _that_ discomfort. As long as John was kept happy he’d continue to sing and write for Sherlock. Everything else was a mere bonus. If John never touched him again he would have that one sweet memory, if he did then he would make sure that he did everything so skillfully that John would never question requesting an encore. In fact, that was one request for a repeat performance that Sherlock would be glad to honor.


	4. Chapter 4

 

[ **vincentmeoblinn** ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/)

Sherlock hurried into the hospital with his computer bag over one shoulder and his violin case and a single white rose in the other. He was whistling Beethoven to himself as he rode the elevator upstairs, his mind wandering to what sort of sweet music he and John would write now that he was going to be taking his lyricist home. He’d been quite firm on that; he would have John live with him and in return John could have all the time he needed to come to terms with their relationship, but he _would_ have John’s full attention on him at all times. John had given him an amused headshake and relented.

He heard the shouting from outside the hospital room and arrived just as security did, watching with narrowed eyes as they urged John’s father out of the room. He gave Sherlock a sneer as he passed.

“Bet you won’t want my pantywaist son now, eh fruit?”

Sherlock hurried into the room concerned the man had done some violence to John, perhaps damaged his fingers or tongue, and stopped in his tracks at the sight of John weeping openly. A nurse was standing by his side, trying to pet him consolingly, but he was pushing her away. Sherlock rushed forward shoving the woman unceremoniously out of the way and clutching John’s hands tightly in his own.

“Are you all right?” When he didn’t answer, “ _Are you all right?!”_

“Y…yes… yes.”

“What happened?”

“He’s just a bastard.”

“I saw your face last time, he doesn’t affect you like this. What. Happened.”

“They’re keeping me a day or two longer and… I’ve got to… drop out of med school… and he’s furious. He’s tossed me out, says not to come by for Christmas,” John’s voice cracked, “Says I’m not his son anymore.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath to stop him going after the berk.

“I’ve brought you a present,” Sherlock said instead, and pressed the flower into John’s hand.

“Oh, thank you. A… flower.”

“Oh, that’s just something a fan gave me on my way out of a show last night. I thought it appropriate since people give flowers to hospital incarcerates.”

John chuckled at his term, “Incarcerates? Honestly, Sherlock, you’re one of a kind.”

“So very, true.”

Sherlock got his sheet music carefully out of the bag and laid it out for John. It was the original music, in his own hand, instead of copies or printed sheets.

“You can keep it; I signed it for you at the bottom.”

“That’s… sweet.”

“I wrote it for you last night, and…” Sherlock dug out a plastic shopping bag and plopped it down, “A few necessities that I’m sure you’ve missed since you found yourself gaoled here.”

“Gaoled,” John chuckled, shaking his head in amusement, “Let’s see what necessities… Oh.”

“I thought you might like to give the piece some lyrics. Not for a record, or anything, just for fun. This piece is just ours.”

“That’s… sweet.” John repeated, pulling out the tablet of paper, blue pen, and red and green markers from the bag.

Sherlock had made sure to get the exact type of supplies John liked to use. He never used lined paper, for instance, and Sherlock had decided this was because he did not want limits or restrictions. John needed his freedom for his art in the same way he demanded it in life. The same went with the red and green markers that he used to write odd shorthand notes and put seemingly random dots all over his work. Sherlock had no idea what the notes or dots meant, only that their color was significant. He had no intention of asking, either; he liked the mystery of not knowing what John’s exact methods were.

John picked up his notepad and Sherlock bit his lip and leaned forward eagerly as he saw John’s hand shaking in anticipation. He felt the same; he couldn’t wait to see John do that little baton twirl he did with the pen, or chew at the cap. Of course, the best part was when he hummed the melody to himself…

John flicked his wrist to twirl his pen and it clattered to the floor. He blushed and looked frantic a moment, but Sherlock fetched it easily. When he handed it back John’s hand was shaking even more and he self-consciously switched to his right hand.

“Perhaps a recorder instead? Just until your shoulder heals,” Sherlock suggested, having read recently that lovers supported each other in times of need.

“Yes. Yes, that would be lovely,” John stated with obvious relief.

“I have one at the house. I’ve brought my violin, as well, so I can play it for you if you like.”

“Later, I think. I prefer to hear it through my head before I get prejudiced by your perfect playing and just follow your whim along,” John teased lightly.

Sherlock laughed and grinned at his humming, then leaned back in his chair, wincing when it creaked, and barely breathed as John began to hum a bit faster, then slower, than closed his eyes in tender thought.

“It sounds a bit Irish in my head… a sort of jig?”

“Does it?” Sherlock breathed, not really wanting to interrupt, but feeling the need to answer.

“Yes… about a girl… a pretty young lass… going to her first Mayfair in the city and being courted by all the boys.”

“Perfect.” Sherlock sighed, because he felt he should.

“It would work best on guitar. A plucky beat, with just a bit of flute music to accent it in the background.”

“Mmm.”

“Getting faster and faster as you go along…”

“Accelerando,” Sherlock smiled and John met his gaze readily.

John picked up his pen, but fumbled it again.

“You know,” John laughed nervously, “I think I’ve got a bit of stage fright.”

“What, from me?”

“Just… things are so new,” John squirmed uncomfortably.

“Yes, I suppose, but I do so love to see you writing,” Sherlock said with a frown.

“Oh, I will, just… could you give me a few? Maybe go and get me some tea?”

“Certainly,” He had promised John time to adjust. The length of time it would take Sherlock to fetch him hot tea was hardly a bother. “Honey and lemon?”

“Please.”

Sherlock left with a brisk step, but paused to enquire of the nursing staff as to the change in John’s release. When they proved useless he managed to slip behind the desk and snag his file which he quickly took with him to the tea cart.

Psychological difficulties? John was showing signs of PTSD and something called psychosomatic disorder? Surely getting shot wasn’t _that_ traumatic. His father was more likely to blame; the man was a blot on humanity, his very presence lowering the IQ for blocks around. Sherlock skimmed a bit further back to find the symptoms that led to the diagnosis and then froze in horror.

_Hand tremors and a limp in his leg; along with intense fear of being able to continue with school and hobbies._

Hobbies, such as his lyric writing and singing?

In Uni a professor, who was quite distraught by Sherlock’s narcissistic personality, had directed him to read The Picture of Dorian Grey. Sherlock was now reminded of the vain man’s first love; an actress whom he saw performing and was instantly smitten by. Convinced he must have her to wed, he professed his love and won her heart. When he returned to see her perform, her performance was lackluster because she now knew what love was and had no need to act it out on stage. He abandoned her instantly.

Sherlock was now faced with a similar dilemma. He had been seduced by John’s voice and had fallen madly in love with the man’s lyrics. Would those feelings die if John became an invalid, incapable of writing for him, perhaps even unable to walk on his own or complete small tasks requiring a steady hand?

A picture rose in Sherlock’s mind of them back at Baker Street, with John sitting in a wheelchair silent and trembling as he had been in the hospital room. His eyes were on Sherlock as he drew the bow across the violin. He smiled, supportive and in love, eyes dancing with joy as Sherlock played him a cheerful tune.

Silent.

“Of course he was humming earlier,” Sherlock scolded himself, putting the file back as he passed the nurses desk with tea in hand, but the image stayed with him all the way back to John’s room.

Sherlock opened the door and saw two things, first John was weeping again, this time over the notebook Sherlock had brought him, and second was nurse with a cane clutched in her hands watching him cry.

“I… I’m sorry Sherlock,” John held his the pad out, “I c-can’t.”

Sherlock accepted the notebook, feeling a cold chill run up his spine, and John looked away, clearly devastated. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look at the notebook. He’d vaguely noticed that it was covered with slanted handwriting that looked nothing like John’s.

Then he remembered the gunman, and the weapon turning to face him. He clearly heard John’s perfect voice shouting for him to run as he tackled the man. His mind’s eye could still see the blood flowing from John’s now bandaged shoulder; so much blood. In The Picture of Dorian Grey the actress had killed herself once she had been spurned. Sherlock nearly choked at the thought of John, cold and pale, the light gone from his eyes, his body drenched in blood once more.

“I’m sure it’s lovely, John,” Sherlock replied, ignoring the catch in his throat.

“You haven’t _looked_ at it.”

“I don’t have to. I know your work, I’m sure it’s superb. You’ll probably need to clean it up a bit once you’re in a _proper_ working environment. A hospital is hardly a place to create artwork.”

“You don’t understand, my hand…”

“Trembles, I’m aware. I did mention a recorder before, yes? My good nurse, if you’re through here, I think John needs to rest.”

“I… yes, Sir.” The nurse placed the cane down beside the bed and Sherlock promptly ignored it.

“Now then, I believe you mentioned plucking the song on a guitar? I only have my violin, but we’ll manage.”

Sherlock pulled out his violin and began carefully tuning it from the ride over. It was almost perfect, but he always worked with it perfectly tuned. John was cleaning up his face and taking a healthy gulp of the tea Sherlock had brought him. If it was too hot, he showed no sign of it. Sherlock smiled at John then, feeling himself blush and suddenly turn shy. It was like his first piano recital when he was four. He had been such a mess of nerves. He’d written this piece while thinking of what it would be like to kiss John again, this time without the raw energy behind it that had fueled their spontaneous mutual pleasure. Would John be reserved, too? Would they kiss fast or slow? Sloppy or neat?

Sherlock held the violin as if it were a guitar and plucked out the notes in a quick, jig tempo. John listened a moment, head cocked, and began to hum along. On the second play through John burst into song and Sherlock gasped at the glorious sound. He only had two stanza written, but he took it on a merry loop and added more as they went around a third time. Sherlock felt as though he were floating, and when John seemed to have all the lyrics sorted out, they went through another round and this time they sang together. John was weeping again, but this time the tears were joyous. He tapped his good leg against the footboard and then snatched a shaker he’d spied out of Sherlock’s bag, giving the song the minor percussion it needed.

They were out of breath and laughing by the time they got through the final, very fast, line of music. Sherlock quickly and carefully placed his violin down in its case and then jumped up to press a spontaneous and quick kiss to John’s lips. John laughed and smiled, then motioned for him to lean in for another. They kissed a bit slower this time, exploring each other’s mouths, but it didn’t last long since they still hadn’t caught their breath.

Sherlock pulled out of the kiss, laughing again, and took up the notepad again. John stilled, as Sherlock looked it over. Not a single letter was recognizable.

“I… it isn’t always like that. Sometimes it doesn’t shake at all.”

“It’s fine, John. It’s all fine. I’ll write it out for you. Sing it again, so you don’t forget. I’ll start writing now.”

“You don’t have to put up with this, you know. I’ll talk to my father and get him to let me back home…”

“You will do nothing of the sort. I’m not _putting up with you_. I… this sort of thing is _not_ my area, John, I’d rather not discuss sentimental nonsense. Why don’t you just trust that this is alright?”

“That’s what I mean. You can do a thousand times better than me. There must be loads of people throwing themselves at you…”

“I don’t want some sycophantic whore.”

“Your friends must know someone…”

“I don’t have friends. I’ve just got you.”

“Your band members must know a musician or two you’d be attracted to…”

“My band members hate me. We have a contract that requires I not speak to them.”

“What?”

“They demanded it. Since the music I write is so diverse I need either several bands or one that can play several different styles. Lestrade and I agreed to their terms because it was easier to get a small group to tolerate me than several large ones.”

“But… why? You’re fantastic. You make it sound like something’s wrong with you.”

“I’ve… made a very large effort not to put you off. You’re important. You’ve made me feel music in a way I never have before, or perhaps in a way I’d forgotten. This,” Sherlock held up the words he’d been transcribing, “will work. I made up my mind a moment ago when I walked in and saw you… well.”

“You make me feel so _wanted_ ,” John stated, as though wanting him were the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard.

“I suggest you acclimate yourself to that.” Sherlock stated, then returned to his writing.

XXXXXXX

John stood, stiff, formal, and so far from _his_ John that Sherlock halted in his tracks as he stepped into the room. John had a cane grasped firmly in his right hand and he looked ready to go to war, not home to Sherlock’s posh flat with a nice housekeeper to pick up after him.

“Something wrong, John?” Sherlock asked warily.

The loo flushed and Sherlock’s father stepped out of it, drying his hands on a paper towel which he charmingly through into John’s face as he passed him.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask that you not behave that way towards my boyfriend, or I may be forced to thrash you,” Sherlock stated without pausing to think.

“You! Thrash me?!”

That was how it started. What came in the middle was of little consequence. How it ended was with John’s father skidding towards the nurses station on his face and chest; quite a horrid sound.

“What do you think that was, high G sharp?” Sherlock asked conversationally as he snatched up a duffel and computer bag. If he was going to have an infirmed boyfriend he was going to have to either carry things or hire someone to do so. Perhaps he’d hire someone.

“That’s what I heard, but a bit of F sharp, too at the end.” John replied with a smirk.

“Thought so. Shall we?”

“Lets.”

Sherlock took a fast stride and kept it since John didn’t complain despite falling behind; though he had broken a sweat by the time they reached the waiting taxi. He held the door for John, shivering in anticipation of getting him home, and then tossed himself in beside him.

“221B Baker Street. May I hold your hand?” Sherlock stated quickly.

“Sorry?” Both John and the cabbie asked.

“Not you! You, drive. You, hand?”

“I… I suppose, yeah.”

Sherlock slid his gloved fingers in between John’s trembling ones and gave them a gentle squeeze before relaxing for the ride.

“Our hands are so much more important than our instruments, don’t you agree, John?”

The cabbie muttered something, but Sherlock ignored it.

“Yes, yes I think so, especially now.”

“You needn’t worry about that, your problem is psychosomatic. It will clear up. I’ve found you a therapist, highly recommended. You’ll be feeling yourself again in no time, and in the mean time I’ll keep you amused. I can always write a bit for you, when I have the time, of course, and otherwise you know there’s nothing I’d like more than to hear you sing.”

John smiled at him, the first real smile he’d given him since Sherlock had walked into the hospital.

“Ah, there’s _my_ John.”

John bridged the gap and pressed a shy kiss to his lips, drawing a shiver out of Sherlock who watched his eyes dilate with no small amount of pleasure.

“Oi! None of that now! I run a clean cab!”

“You run a haphazard cab. Do try to drive in a straight line.” Sherlock snipped.

“Maybe it’s the bent passengers mucking up my alignment.” He growled significantly.

“Hey, now, that’s uncalled for!” John piped up, looking cross, “Have you any idea who you’re talking to?”

“Obviously he doesn’t,” Sherlock scolded John lightly.

“He’s Sherlock Holmes,” John provided, pointlessly in Sherlock’s opinion.

“Not the fellow who wrote Sanguine Interlude in A minor?”

“The very,” Sherlock provided, “Among other notable works. Why are you pulling over?”

“I’ll not have you posing as a brilliant composer just to give him a bad name. Fuck off, the lot of you, and be glad I don’t give you worse.”

John and Sherlock piled out of the cab, and he drove off without letting them get John’s luggage out of the back. Sherlock took off chasing him and John gave a shout and followed. Sherlock turned down an alley and John staggered after, shouting at him to stop. Five turns later they headed the cabbie off and Sherlock tried to flag him down, but the man sped up.

John tackled Sherlock, knocking him out of the way, and they both went down with a clatter as the cab took off down the road.

“Did you get his license?” Sherlock asked, frustrated by his failure to take care of John on his first day on the job.

“Are you mad? Are you _hurt?”_

“What? No, I’m fine. Oh, right, are you?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” John laughed lightly, and then frowned, “You’re bleeding.”

Sherlock wasn’t really listening, though, he’d noted John’s cane lying on the ground a meter off and John standing perfectly straight.

“Let’s walk the rest of the way, we’re not far now.”

“Well, now I’ve got my wind back, why not?”

They both heard the motor at the same time, but it was John who grabbed Sherlock’s lapels and dragged him onto the sidewalk. The cab kept coming and John pushed Sherlock into a doorway, pressing his back against him as though to cushion the blow. He tugged a revolver out of his waste band and fired a shot at the cabbie as the vehicle flew towards them. To Sherlock’s shock the cab started swerving madly and then slammed into a pole. The cabbie’s body flew through the windshield and the man hit the stoop to the building beside them with a sickening crunch.

“Alright?” John asked.

“Me?! You’ve just shot a man!”

“Yes, well, he wasn’t a very _nice_ man. Oh, here comes the Calvary,” John pointed to where a large Anglo-African woman had run out of her building with a mobile to her ear.

“I saw everything! Are you two alright?!”

“A bit banged up, could you get a flannel?” John called.

“A flannel?” Sherlock asked. John reached up and touched his forehead to reveal a smear of blood on his forehead. 

“Oh, you poor lamb, you come inside. Let that piece of trash lay on the stoop where rubbish belongs.”

The police arrived in short order and took photos of everything, questioning them both despite Sherlock’s insistence that his Attorney be brought in. Lestrade showed, dragging the Attorney with him, and leaned over to hiss a question in Sherlock’s ear.

“What the fuck did you _say_ to get him to try and run you down?! It’s already hit the news!”

“I haven’t the slightest idea of what upset the man. Ask John, he was completely irrational.”

“He was pissed because we’re… we’re… ah… gay.”

“He was cross because you’re homosexual?” The attorney asked, John blanched and nodded, “Bastard.”

John looked relieved and Sherlock stared at him thoughtfully, “Was that his problem?”

“You didn’t cotton on to that by all he was saying?”

“I couldn’t be arsed about what he was saying,” Sherlock snorted.

“Oi! You two need to be separated,” A detective snapped, “I don’t want you two corroborating.”

“They were victims, Detective Inspector Dimmock,” the attorney snapped.

Sherlock cut them off by standing up in full steam.

“My boyfriend and bodyguard needs to go to a hospital immediately! He was just released an hour ago after being _shot_ and a car has nearly run him down! His stitches need to be checked.”

 “Bodyguard?” Lestrade asked.

“Boyfriend?” The attorney asked, having represented Sherlock before.

“They are bleeding a bit,” John admitted.

“Sherlock Holmes?” A starry eyed constable asked. D.I. Dimmock groaned in frustration.

“Yes, but you can call me _pissed off_. I want an ambulance here _now_. It’s utterly ridiculous that we haven’t been checked up on by now! I’ve half a mind to sue the entire department!”

An hour later they were discharged from the hospital – again – and Lestrade dropped them off at 221B with a wave and a promise he’d get John’s stuff back from the police the next day.

Sherlock and John hurried into the flat, Sherlock eager to make John at home, but was suddenly snatched and pressed against the door.

John’s lips pressed hungrily to Sherlock’s, who moaned and clutched at him responsively. They made their way over to the couch, Sherlock tugging at his own trousers as they went, while John nipped and licked at his lips with fascinating talent. John shoved Sherlock down onto the couch and scrambled in between his legs. Sherlock’s trousers and pants were caught around his ankles, so John’s position pinned him down completely. He tried to mention his being trapped, but John ran his tongue along his neck and he lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

John’s shoulder inhibited his movement and he soon swore in frustration and pushed himself up – via his right arm – to kneel between Sherlock’s legs and stare down at his panting form.

“Take my trousers and pants off,” John growled, and Sherlock moaned in anticipation before complying.

Sherlock stared down at John’s rather impressive member with something along the lines of wonder. He’d never taken the time to study another person’s body, and he hadn’t had the foresight at the hospital. John lazily stroked himself with his left hand while raising an eyebrow and considering the situation. John and he were about the same length, though Sherlock was likely not done developing at a mere 19 years of age, but John had a thickness to him that made parts of Sherlock clench. He had no idea what he wanted, but he _needed_ it like water in the desert.

“The logical solution would be to exchange positions,” Sherlock informed calmly.

“No.”

“But your shoulder...”

“I said ‘no’ Sherlock. I like you like this, all pretty and spread out for me.”

Sherlock’s jaw clicked shut and he stared wide-eyed up at the man who had him pinned to the couch with his eyes.

_He’s going to devour me and I can barely stand the expectation._

“I’m going to stretch out across you,” John instructed, his voice thick with desire, “and pin your hands above your head. You’re going to rub that pretty pink cock against mine fast and hard. Understand?”

Sherlock’s hands flew above his head in response, his cock twitching and leaking copiously, and John carefully lowered himself down to pin Sherlock’s wrists almost painfully with his good right hand. His left he used to steady himself on the couch arm, but put barely any pressure on it. Much of his weight was on Sherlock’s hips and chest, leaving him breathless but excited. He’d never thought of what it would be like to be pressed down against a surface with another person’s weight above his body. He felt vulnerable and exhilarated; he trusted this man with his life and he was willing to submit his entire body as proof if only he could keep him selfishly by his side.

Sherlock rolled his hips experimentally and their members rubbed against each other and their abdomens. They both groaned and Sherlock took that as approval and began thrusting eagerly, their foreskins creating a delicious glide. John was moaning eagerly, but held himself perfectly still. Sherlock was becoming frantic with need, chasing his release with more exuberance as sweat slicked the path between them. The thin trail of hair on John’s stomach tickled his own and only added to the delicious friction his frenzied thrusting created.

“Oh, god, John! John!”

“Mmm, yes, Sher, just like that. Roll your hips more. Ahhhh, fuck!”

Sherlock was screaming out his orgasm, his body jerking out of rhythm, his hips flying fast as he tried to prolong this most beautiful moment indefinitely. Sherlock went limp, his entire body relaxed in ways he had only thought an unhealthy dose of nicotine could accomplish.

“Are you forgetting something?” John growled from above him, and released one of Sherlock’s hands.

_What do I need that for? I thought he was keeping them._

“Sherlock! Touch me! Now!”

“Oh!”

Sherlock’s hand flew to John’s thick cock and grasped it firmly, using his own come as lubricant and twisting his wrist on the upstroke to get the most sensation out of his movements. John groaned and thrust is hips a bit, then he was spilling himself across Sherlock’s body, drawing a gasp from the composer as he felt the hot substance splash onto his body and trickle down his sides like an intimate caress. Sherlock felt his own organ twitch with hope for more, but he was so _tired_.

John eased himself down on top of Sherlock, his shorter form melding into Sherlock’s until they lay with John’s head cradled on Sherlock’s shoulder. Released from the grip John had on it, Sherlock’s arm came down around John while the other lazily stroked his hip.

“I think perhaps saving your life is a bit of a turn on for me,” John confessed with a nervous laugh.

“I shall endeavor to get myself in trouble more often,” Sherlock teased.

“Don’t you dare!” John pinched Sherlock’s side and he yelped in a most undignified fashion.

“I was _joking_. Of course, I do have many truly mad fans and the odd insane homicidal cabbie…”

John chuckled and then sighed, “You’re going to have to help me up. I think I’ve pushed myself too far.”

Sherlock carefully helped John to his feet and they stared at their sticky bodies.

“Shower,” Sherlock decided with his nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Definitely.”

Sherlock warmed up the shower and laid out towels while John taped a bit of plastic over his stitches with medical tape; Sherlock did the back for him. John apparently wanted to use the shower to memorize every inch of Sherlock’s body, which led to more fantastic frotting and Sherlock coming into John’s hand with a whimper as his exhausted body demanded he lay down and _sleep._

John grunted out his own finale while pressed between Sherlock’s thighs so that the composer was able to watch the man’s seed spray out in front of him as if it were his own. Sherlock missed the feel of the man’s thick member the moment he withdrew it.

 _So that was intercrural sex._ Sherlock’s mind supplied, as he recalled it mentioned when he’d been looking up forms of sex as an adolescent. This one had appealed to him the most as it did not require penetration.

“I believe I may be addicted to you,” Sherlock informed calmly.

“Good thing, that, since I’m well on my way, too,” John teased, patting Sherlock’s towel covered bottom.

They toppled into bed together and John once more turned shy. Sherlock coaxed him into an embrace anyway.

“After what we’ve just done, how can you be so coy?”

“It’s the moment, Sherlock, I’m not thinking till it’s over and done, then I’m trying to figure out where I put my brain that whole time.”

“Well, there was significant blood flow allocated to other locations,” Sherlock snickered.

“Did you just find an intellectual way to tell me I’m thinking with my dick?”

“A bit, yes.” 

They chuckled a bit and it broke the tension enough for John to relax.

“So, when do I meet this band you’re not allowed to talk to? I’m curious to see what kind of people they are.”

“The worse sort. Unimaginative and convinced they’re the reason I’ve succeeded so well as a musician.”

“The nerve of them,” John agreed, chuckling for some reason.

“Precisely,” Sherlock thought a moment, “I’m not sure you’ll be allowed to meet them. I’ll have to check with Lestrade. It could be your intimate association with me could be seen as a form of communication with me, which I’ve already explained is not allowed per their contracts.”

“That’s… complicated.”

“A bit, yes.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

As it turned out the band was curious enough to meet John and agreed to it, but Sherlock kept John confined to the flat until he had healed a bit more. He claimed a well-deserved holiday and spent the time singing, composing, writing lyrics down for John, and attempting to seduce the headstrong man. Their sex life was tenuous; sometimes John was receptive and sometimes he wasn’t, but Sherlock did manage to have the most spectacular almost-sex of his life when John allowed him to thrust his cock between his thighs as he had in the shower a week before. Sherlock pressed his face into John’s neck and breathed in his scent as he thrust in between John’s lube covered thighs and gasped at the tight feel of his thigh muscles clenching his cock tightly. Sherlock was too excited for it to last long and came after barely a dozen thrusts, leaving John largely unsatisfied as he hadn’t had the mental capacity left to fist the man’s cock, but he made up for it by running his tongue up and down John’s prick until the man came shouting his name.

It was Sherlock’s first taste of semen, as he curiously sampled John’s offering. John looked at him with obvious desire, then trailed a finger through the mess on his stomach and lapped at it as well. They’d ended up jerking each other off a second time, youthful enthusiasm underscoring their amorous couplings until they both collapsed from fatigue.

They made it into the recording studio an hour late and Lestrade reamed Sherlock out for it. John looked more upset by it than Sherlock felt, so he put an arm around the man and told Lestrade where to shove his timetables. Lestrade rolled his eyes and guided the pair into the recording area where the band had already warmed up and were chatting amicably.

There were three band members besides Sherlock. Molly Hooper was a mousy woman who played piano, acoustic guitar, and the cello as needed. Sally Donovan was a fierce, punky woman, with excellent taste in clothes, who played bass guitar, several wind instruments, and 2nd violin. Anderson, a sharp-featured man who only went by that as his uninventive stage name, played percussion. Sherlock also had various opera singers, a few orchestras, and back-up musicians take part on occasion, but they weren’t a part of his actual ensemble.

Sherlock stayed in the sound area while John stepped into the recording booth to greet the musicians, who looked at him with apprehension and some hostility. By longstanding agreement Sherlock was not allowed to listen in when the band was in the booth alone unless it was to hear them play. Sherlock watched as John put on his ‘I’m a nice cheerful fellow’ face and held out his hand to the band. He kept it out, gamely, while chatting them up, despite their obvious refusal to accept it. After a minute of John posing there with his hand held out, his mouth moving happily in some odd joke, the group laughed too and Molly took John’s hand first. The rest followed and soon everyone looked relaxed and familiar with each other.

Sherlock didn’t know how he felt about that. He knew John was personable and got along with most everyone, but he _hated_ his band members. Finally John headed back out of the booth and slipped his arms around Sherlock’s arm, smiling up at him sweetly. Sherlock dismissed his jealousy and bussed John’s forehead.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Lestrade stated, unnecessarily clapping his hands for attention, “I booked us for another two hours so we can get some work done. Sherlock, they’ve been over your music. Loving the sequence of songs this time. We’re all in agreement it moves from sad songs to happy? Yeah?”

Everyone nodded but carefully did _not_ look Sherlock’s way.

“Fantastic, Sherlock, you said you had some more music for us? The end of the cd, I hope?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock handed the multiple copies of sheet music over and Lestrade accepted it, carefully not meeting Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock had visited him that morning, without John, and presented him with a tape of John singing to convince him to put John in the band. Lestrade had refused, explaining that John wasn’t attractive enough and they were already pushing the boundary with Plain-Jane-Molly, as the media had dubbed her. Sherlock had thrown an absolute fit and stormed out, threatening to find a new manager and quit the band. John had tried to calm him down by assuring him he didn’t want to be on stage, which had led to a fight, which had led to that fantastic intercrural sex and them being late. Lestrade, of course, hadn’t taken his threats seriously.

“From our holiday,” Sherlock explained, “John hasn’t written lyrics for most of this yet, we’re not even sure we like some of them. We thought we’d just hear it played by the group first. John is concerned some of it is a bit shallow.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced sideways at John who blinked at him in apparent confusion. Of course, John wouldn’t know that Sherlock regularly had fits about any kind of critique of his music by anyone who hadn’t earned his respect on a music sheet.

“Right… well… let’s just give it a go then. We’ll start with what is already complete, then try this lot out.”

The band and Sherlock filed in and the room was soon filled with the sounds of their latest rock opera release. They moved by order of song, starting with the sad, longing songs that Sherlock had written while John was refusing to speak to him, and moved on to the hopeful bits he’d written while John was in the hospital. The perky songs, most recently written, were the ones that were still unfinished.

Sherlock and the band gave the more recent songs a sloppy play through and everyone was grumbling unhappily, when the speaker crackled and John’s voice piped through.

“Could you play that again, please? Bit faster this time, and add more percussion.”

The band blinked in confusion at the sight of John in Lestrade’s post behind the mixing board. He had a notepad in hand, a marker behind each ear, and a pen in his free hand. As Sherlock watched with growing anticipation he stuck the pen between his teeth and nibbled at it.

Sherlock motioned to the band and they started up again, Anderson improvising to add more percussion; Lestrade stopped them halfway through.

“We need to make some changes to your score, Sherlock, you need to…” Lestrade cut off, staring down at the floor for some reason, then shook his head in frustration, “I’m not saying that; you’re the madman who’s sleeping with him, _you_ say it. And may god have mercy on your soul.”

John stood up from where Lestrade had been staring and Sherlock gave him a baffled look, wondering why he’d been sitting on the _floor_ of all places. John took the mic again and pressed the button to speak.

“We need to loose the third stanza. It’s bunk,” John explained as the entire band gasped in shock and Lestrade crossed himself dramatically, “Can you improvise something? Maybe slower and muted? Like it’s a secret?”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side in curiosity, then lied through his teeth: “I can’t picture what you’re describing, hum it for me.”

John’s started with the second stanza then shifted to a muted tone with almost mysterious quality as he improvised the third stanza’s notes, shifting them into another key and changing the entire tone of the song.

“Radiant,” Sherlock replied, then snagged some staff paper and started quickly jotting down notes.

Lestrade came in to fetch Sherlock’s paper to make copies and Sherlock followed him out to see what John was up to.

John was on his knees on the floor with papers spread out around him and all his writing utensils in play. Sherlock recognized three of the sheets with his own handwriting; John was jumping from paper to paper and putting colored dots on them, while writing out lyrics on a fourth. His hand was completely steady and he was humming a few notes in quick succession. Lestrade returned with the copies and Sherlock pressed one of them on John who skimmed it, altered his humming, and then eagerly attacked the fourth sheet. The band had joined them at that point, but Sherlock ignored them in favor of sinking to the floor to watch John more closely. He tucked his knees under his chin and stared with avid interest as John’s eyes glazed over and he entered that place he used to write Sherlock’s lyrics.

Sherlock was barely breathing with excitement. John hadn’t been able to get to this point since before he was shot. He’d written, but it had lacked his previous talent. Not so now, as Sherlock read the clear writing upside down and saw the genius he’d fallen in love with once more. Sherlock knew well what sort of mental space the man had slipped into; he called his own his Mind Palace, and his best music was written when he’d managed to get there. It was a state of nearly complete concentration on the music, with only the must urgent of physical sensations interfering.

“I need more _colors_.” John ranted in frustration.

“Lestrade, get John more markers. Different colors. Hurry.” Sherlock whispered.

Lestrade left without a word and returned with a handful of whiteboard markers and a few highlighters. John snatched them from him and the paper was quickly covered with many colored dots.

“Can anyone else in the band carry a tune?” John asked.

“No idea,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes,” Sally corrected, her voice soft as she must have recognized John’s mood for what it was. She wasn’t a complete idiot, then.

“Perfect, you’ll need to sing this part.” John held up the fourth sheet and let it go before Sally could reach for it. It wafted to the ground where Sherlock picked it up, his fingers feeling numb. He didn’t hand it to Sally.

“You wrote lyrics for someone else?” Sherlock whispered, glancing over them. The song was a sensual one, and this seemed to be the reply the courter was receiving. Sherlock did _not_ want Sally singing this. He wanted John to sing it.

“Hmmm? It’s no different than you and your Stradivarius.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“You write your songs on your Strad, but you play them on guitar. It’s no different. The song doesn’t change because of the instrument. Like you said, the hands are what are important.”

John looked up and Sherlock realized he’d pulled the man out of his focused place. He frowned in frustration at that, but then tried to get him back there again.

“Sing it for me. I want to hear you.”

“Alright,” John stood, wincing a bit after being on the floor for so long, and started singing. The soft tones were mesmerizing and more than one person gasped at his unbelievable voice. The song was intimate and John closed his eyes and swayed his hips, going from dull to sexy in a moment. Sally eyed him appreciatively and Lestrade was sporting a rather obvious erection. Sherlock glared at it and he adjusted himself, blushing furiously.

“That tape you brought in doesn’t do him justice.” Lestrade whispered to Sherlock.

“He wasn’t singing like this on it. He was more… reserved.”

“Might have stage fright, you know. Not be able to sing proper when recorded.”

“Maybe.”

John dropped back to the floor, making some more notes, and then huffed in frustration.

“This won’t do, Sherlock, the whole song needs to be rewritten. We haven’t the time for this now.”

“Can you make the corrections right on my staff paper? Or is the adjustment that severe.”

“No… I suppose I can.”

Sherlock handed him a handful of musical sheets, the original score plus the adjusted third stanza. John looked at it in frustration and Sherlock felt the urge to apologize.

“I’m sorry, I know you don’t prefer such a limiting template.”

“What?” John asked, looking up at him in confusion.

“The staff paper. I know you prefer to write on blank canvas, like an artist ready to paint, rather than be constrained by the staff sheets.”

John blinked at him, and then smiled softly.

“You’ve got it wrong, Sherlock. The paper isn’t blank because I’m waiting to begin; it’s blank because I’m waiting for you to finish. You’re my inspiration and this,” he indicated the papers scattered across the floor, “this is just a medium. I need your music sheets before I can write, and then I need the paper blank so I can envision the notes overtop of my own handwriting. Lines on paper get in the way of that.”

“My god, you’re humbling, do you know that?” Sherlock asked, awed by the man in front of him, “You constantly remind me that I’m limited by what notes I can play and what instruments are available to me, and yet you take the rules and structure of the songs I compose, throw them out the window, and add another layer to my music that I can’t achieve on my own.”

“That’s the beauty of music, Sherlock, there are only limits if you create them. You may be dignified order, but I’m perfectly willing to be your bohemian chaos.”

Sherlock had no reply to that. There didn’t seem to be one. He just rested his chin on his knees and stared in wonder at the man before him. After a few more minutes of marking papers, John levered himself to his feet and handed Lestrade the finished work to copy and re-distribute after Sherlock had glanced it over and approved it.

The band moved to play again and Sherlock had to lower his guitar strap to hide his arousal as the music and lyrics flowed through his body and made his heart pound a violent staccato. As they left the studio, with Sherlock’s arm tight around John’s waste, Lestrade gave the man a curious look. The band was oddly subdued, but Sherlock attributed that to John’s brilliance. He could be jealous- after all he was used to being the center of attention- but John wasn’t stealing it; he was buffing it from the glow of the moon to the brilliance of the sun. With John by his side Sherlock wouldn’t just be famous, he would be the immortal Apollo, and he would take his Muse as his bride to Olympus to dwell with him for eternity: because the music was everything and through it they were complete.


	5. Chapter 5

 

[ **vincentmeoblinn** ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/)

John was quite possibly part muse and part offspring of Hedylogos, one of the Erotes. He seemed to live to compliment Sherlock and make him feel as though his entire world revolved around John and their music. They wrote together, ate together, slept entwined in each other’s arms, went to concerts together, and – if Sherlock was incredibly lucky – they made love together.

One such occasion was after a concert. It was a month since they had moved in together and Sherlock was touring Europe again, this time on a lovely Celtic rock/ heavy metal combo tour employing a group who played two different types of bagpipes, a celtic flute, and the bodhrán. Their latest CD was the inspiration and people flocked to hear him sing his duet with Sally. It was all over the news that they were lovers, though of course that was false, but she never stated so to the media because she knew it would bite her in the arse. Sherlock had no such qualms and denied her vehemently, informing them that he and his lyricist were all but married. John hadn’t appreciated that, but he also hadn’t commented on it.

Tonight’s concert, however, was about to become a serious problem as Sally had gone out drinking and smoking with Anderson the night before and completely trashed her voice; the gigantic bullfrogs in South America sounded more harmonious. Lestrade verbally flayed her while Sherlock silently cheered with glee.

“There’s no help for it. John will have to sing her part,” Sherlock cheerily suggested.

“No he won’t,” John snipped immediately.

“I don’t think that will quite work out, Sherlock, the parts for a _woman_ and we don’t know John’s ever sung on stage.”

“He knows all the lyrics, his voice is superior to Sally’s, and he’s my boyfriend. We’ll have stage chemistry. Aren’t you always complaining the band hasn’t any stage chemistry?”

“John, do you think you could perform?” Lestrade asked with a sigh.

“No way. I’m not singing a girls part. It just… it does’t suit me! Lets switch up the songs, maybe play something unreleased…” John suggested.

“We can’t do that. Copyrighting,” Lestrade cut him off, “Not to mention this is a whole different style than Sherlock’s ever written. Nothing else fits, and this songs the bloody moneymaker shot.”

“If your problem is with taking the feminine role, I’ll sing it,” Sherlock offered, “You sing the masculine role. It will show off your voice better, anyway.”

The silence that followed couldn’t have been more shocked, and then Sally and Anderson started snickering.

“Well,” Sally croaked, “there goes our thought he was on top! Here I thought he was so sweet because he was finally getting laid, apparently John’s been putting him in his place!”

“I am neither on top or bottom. John and I haven’t progressed past oral sex yet.” Sherlock growled before Lestrade could shout at him that contracts prevented their communication.

John looked embarrassed, but Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. They were taking it slow, which was his choice not Sherlock’s, why would he be ashamed?

“What do you say, John? We could move that song to the end so that if it goes flop the crowd will already be geared up and we can bow out gracefully with an old favorite instead. Maybe ‘Lift Me Up, Bonny Lass’? It’s more folk than rock, but it might make a nice bow-out.”

“That would work, I guess,” John replied, looking embarrassed.

“Perhaps Sherlock should dress the part.” Sally suggested to Lestrade with a nasty grin, “He’d look smashing in one of my skirts.”

“Please thank Sally for me, Lestrade, but I’m afraid I could never wear something that revealing on stage. I’m not that kind of tranny.”

“So you _do_ dress in drag! I wondered how you’d snagged a straight guy!” Sally clapped happily, leading to Lestrade snapping about their contracts again.

“He’s never dressed in drag around me. I’m in love with Sherlock for who he is, not his body,” John replied irritably. He had more leeway with the band than Sherlock did, and sometimes hung out with them when Sherlock got on his nerves.

“I certainly hope my body has _something_ to do with it,” Sherlock tried to look flirty, but he was a bit hurt by John’s comment.

“Yes, yes, you’re gorgeous,” John shrugged off, rolling his eyes and grinning at Sherlock’s ‘theatrics’ as he called his public displays of affection.

“Lestrade, find me a dress. I _will_ sing this in drag,” Sherlock decided forcefully, and delighted in John’s sudden flush.

Lestrade looked something between horrified and intrigued, and walked off to speak with costume after cautioning them all to stay on opposite sides of the room, with the exception of John who had become another intermediary between the groups since he had no problem telling either of them off.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John stepped on stage dressed in a sexy white thin silk dress shirt with several buttons undone and a pair of tight black dress pants and shiny dress shoes. He had the sleeves to the shirt rolled up to show of his rugby muscles. Sherlock was practically drooling since he’d never seen the man in anything remotely fashionable.

“I’d like you all to give a warm welcome to my boyfriend and lyricist, John Watson, who will be taking Sally’s place in our duet today since she’s not feeling her best,” the ramped up crowd cheered his approach and John crossed the stage and took up a headset and Sherlock’s acoustic guitar, smiling at them all nervously, “I’m just going to pop off for a costume change. I’m not going to lie, this is a bit unconventional, and I hope you’re all going to keep an open mind tonight. If you do, I promise you’ll enjoy yourselves _immensely_. I know I will.”

Before Sherlock left he walked up to John and cupped his cheek, turning his face towards him to try to get the man into his own version of Sherlock’s Mind Palace. John apparently called it his ‘artistic zone’, which was an unoriginal name, but Sherlock didn’t care as long as it _worked_. John looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, and Sherlock was glad he’d taken the time. He leaned forward and hummed into John’s ears, glad the mic was off, as the audience probably thought he was whispering; either way it wouldn’t be taken as innocent as he was too far into John’s personal space. The entire building fell to a startled hush, and John’s breath stuttered and gasped against his curls. When he leaned back John’s eyes were glazed and his pupils blown; anyone else would mistake it for arousal, but John looked predatory when aroused. This was what he looked like when he was completely in sync with the music and ready to reduce Sherlock to a quivering mass of need with his beautiful voice.

Sherlock exited stage right, to the shouts of his fans, and was tugged behind a curtain where he was stripped and stuffed into a corset while John began the first half of the song. They’d practiced this with the costume team and it was a close thing to get him into his outfit quickly enough. Once the purple corset was in place a jean jacket covered his too muscular to be feminine arms, his trousers were replaced with a jean skirt and nude stockings, his dress shoes with torturous high heels, all while the makeup team refreshed his face, toning down the masculine parts and accentuating his cheekbones. To the audience in the distance and on the big screens it would be delicate and feminine, especially once he shot down the comic bright red lipstick Lestrade had wanted to use.

Then he was shoved back onstage to the shrieks of shock and excitement of his fans. John had to pause, they hadn’t anticipated the reaction to be one that extreme, but eventually the band stopped cycling the music and Sherlock was able to pick up his lines after John tossed out the last line of his section. Sherlock swayed his hips sensually and John began to join him a bit. He moved behind John, slipping his hands around his shoulders and sliding a hand inside of his shirt to tweak his nipples. John’s gasp could be heard through the microphone and a woman in the front row literally swooned.

Sherlock’s seductive interlude ended and he was surprised to find John yanking the guitar off and quickly placing it in its stand. That wasn’t how it was supposed to…

John spun around and snatched Sherlock against himself, continuing to sing his lyrics with an entirely new passion behind them. One foot was tapping as he crooned the words into his lover’s neck and Sherlock was positive the audience had a perfect view of his flexing gluts in those tight pants. Sally had been shocked when the acoustic stopped, so they were left with only percussion and vocals as the song suddenly utilized a break.

Sally gradually slipped back in as Sherlock slipped around in front of John, scooped up his guitar, and played for all he was worth. John walked around Sherlock in a circle, stalking him as the lyrics flowing from his lips promised all sorts of sexual debauchery. They probably looked as though they were eye fucking right there on the stage, but Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to care. When the song ended he practically threw his guitar into it’s stand, snatched off John’s and his own microphone, tugged John against him by his lapels, and snogged him right on the stage. John apparently approved, because he suddenly snatched Sherlock up, tossed him over his shoulder, and walked off of the stage as Sherlock waved a farewell to his fans from John’s shoulder, one hand happily cupping John’s arse.

Lestrade was in the corridor that led to Sherlock’s dressing room and was babbling a mile a minute.

“That was bloody _brilliant_! When did you two practice that? They’re going nuts out there! You two need to go back on stage and…”

His voice was shut off as John kicked the dressing room door shut in his face before dropping Sherlock down onto his makeup table. Odds and ends went flying as John tugged his skirt up around his hips, yanked off his silk knickers (Sherlock had insisted on the realism) and buried his face in his bollucks, breathing in his scent and moaning appreciatively.

Sherlock was panting for it by the time John paid his cock any mind, and then he shocked Sherlock by snatching up some lotion from the table. He tore his own trousers and pants down and stroked a handful of lotion over his cock. Sherlock melted and quickly flipped himself over, presenting himself for John’s use with a hungry moan. He’d been waiting _ages_ for this!

There was a pause and Sherlock thought he’d misread John, that perhaps he only meant to use his thighs to get off again, but then a moist finger stroked his entrance a few times before pushing in. Sherlock gasped at the burn, but stubbornly planted his feet and pushed back.

“Shhhhh, easy. Adagio, Sherlock, just for now.”

“Capriccio, if you please,” Sherlock panted eagerly as John slipped in a second finger.

“A Chord first,” John chuckled, pressing a third finger in. Sherlock hissed in pain and John stilled, giving him time to adjust and rubbing his back a bit before continuing his gentle motions.

“Legato,” Sherlock purred in agreement now, as John slipped his fingers free, “Grazioso.”

“Yes, Maestro,” John teased lightly, a loving pet name he’d started using for Sherlock lately. “For now, then I think…”

John slipped himself slowly inside, his speech cut off with a gasp as he held himself still. Sherlock could feel John’s member twitching inside of him, could even feel his bollocks draw up against his buttocks, and held himself perfectly still lest this all end too soon.

“Then accelerando, Maestro,” John panted, his body tense as a violin bow.

He accentuated his words by a soft glide out, leaving only the spongy head inside Sherlock’s twitching passage. Sherlock gasped at the feel, wanting that fullness back inside of him, and clutched the edges of the bureau to stop himself from impaling himself back on John’s thick shaft. John moaned, deep and low, as he slid himself inside of Sherlock’s hungry hole once more.

“Oh, god, Sher, you’re so tight!” John gasped; he managed one more slow draw out and in before he cried out again, “Oh, fuck, I can’t…!”

John took up brutal pace then, rocking the dresser, tilting the mirror above Sherlock’s head, and gripping his hips tightly as he fucked him fast and hard. Sherlock cried out in utter bliss, the burn of entry forgotten under the assault on the most wonderful spot in his body, which John’s long, thick cock was stroking with every thrust. They were caught in a spirited galliard, with John leading him through the motions with enthusiasm, his hips occasionally creating a shallow staccato as he intentionally thrust teasingly against that sensitive spot inside of Sherlock several times to bring him close to the edge.

“That’s your prostate, Sher,” John panted, “You like it?”

“Yes! John! I’m… ohhhh!” Sherlock cried, and felt his testicles draw up, a tight curl of heat clench in his stomach, as his voice hit a sudden falsetto and he all but sang out his release, completely untouched, onto the floor beneath him.

“Oh, god, Sher, ohfuckohfuckohfuck! Yes! Ahhh!”

Sherlock gasped as he felt heat flood his body, John’s member twitching and jerking out and then back in one last time, as he buried himself deep inside his lover. They came down slowly, John slipping out of Sherlock’s body at the same time he dropped into a chair and tugged Sherlock into his lap. He held him a moment, Sherlock’s legs sprawled out in front of them, his outfit disheveled, and his entire body twitching in the aftermath of a truly mind-blowing orgasm.

“That…” John gasped, but didn’t finish his sentence.

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed.

“Fucking hell.” John added.

“I can barely breath in this thing,” Sherlock complained, breaking into their reverie and drawing a laugh from John.

“Let’s unbind you, oh great composer, before your fantastic lungs collapse beneath all that whale bone.”

“They don’t make them with whalebone anymore. I think this horrid things got _metal_ in it.”

John laughed musically and they both cleaned up and changed clothes. Lestrade was standing outside when they finally emerged, blushing but looking otherwise unashamed at what he must have overheard.

“Thought you hadn’t gotten there yet,” Lestrade teased, nudging John’s ribs with his elbow.

“We’ve made remarkable strides today,” Sherlock stated, nodding seriously and putting his arm around John’s shoulder. John groaned and rubbed a hand over his forehead in embarrassment.

“Please tell me I only dreamed making out with you on stage in front of hundreds of people?” John asked, his eyes filled with delayed shock and horror.

“It’s probably already on the news,” Lestrade grinned, “We’ll see if it makes or breaks you, but I’m guessing makes. This is an open minded world, after all.”

Sherlock snorted and limped away with John holding him round the waist. Life couldn’t possibly be more perfect.


	6. Chapter 6

 

[ **vincentmeoblinn** ](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/)

The last two years had seen the rising and falling and rising again of Sherlock and John’s fame; the moving on of several band members and the introduction of new ones; some solo activity for a period of time as John regressed and retreated from the stage unless demanded to be there. All through it all they had been steadfast in their relationship, fighting like cats and dogs and making up like porn stars. John was as loyal and endearing as Sherlock was demanding and exasperating.

Now, however, a new challenge had arisen; John wanted children. Sherlock almost despaired at this announcement, but John apparently wanted children with Sherlock and had a mind to get them. He put an advert into the paper saying they wanted to adopt and wanted a little English boy or girl of anywhere between a year and five. Thousands of people replied, but most of them were offering to have John or Sherlock (or both?) impregnate them. John was determined. He wanted a hitherto _unwanted_ child that he could love and raise with Sherlock. Sherlock avoided analyzing that out loud.

It was as they were coming back from a concert, with reporters pushing in on all sides and the police struggling to keep them back, that a young girl, barely into adolescence, pushed through the crowd of Bobbies and journalists, and thrust a squalling child into John’s arms. John quickly caught the poor frightened thing up and shouted for the woman to wait. Sherlock took after her like a shot, along with a few police, but she evaded them all and vanished without a trace despite Sherlock’s knowledge of the streets. John meanwhile, had taken the frightened child inside and was calming him as best he could. Sherlock returned to find the little boy snuggled in his lap eating cereal from a bowl and sucking his thumb.

“We need nappies, bottles, and dummies.” John stated firmly, and Sherlock obediently went to seek out Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, to locate the required items.

Mrs. Hudson had a few bottles in her house, apparently, from her days as a grandmother, and John soon had a bottle full of milk in the sleepy child’s mouth. Mrs. Hudson took a look at the soiled nappy on the child’s bottom, but it turned out to be a newspaper held together with re-used duct tape. John was horrified and Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. A social worker was called and they took the poor thing to a doctor as soon as the nappies were provided. The child was in good health, if sporting a horrid diaper rash, but had no medical records anywhere according to hospital. He was likely unvaccinated and Sherlock immediately made the appointments for shots as well as holding the squalling child down as they administered the first round. John put his fingers in his ears and closed his eyes the whole time.

Their adoption paperwork had gone through ages ago, so it was no trouble convincing the social worker to let them keep the little boy while the mother was located so everything could be finalized, but John wasn’t content with the turn of events. He wanted to find the mother and get an explanation from her and perhaps a little medical history. Immediately.

They put out an ad in the paper again, and dozens of young women stepped forward claiming the child, most claiming it was Sherlock or John as the father, but none of them fit Sherlock’s perfect memory of her face. It wasn’t until a week later, as they were leaving their flat to go out for dinner, that they saw her again. She was peering out at them from around a corner, and let out a pained sob as she saw her son hold out a hand and call for her.

“Mamamamamamamamama!”

“Please wait!” John called, hurrying towards her with the child in his arms.

She delayed this time, staring at him nervously until he reached her side.

“My god, Sherlock, you’re right. She’s barely a teen. Are you his mother?” John asked, his voice filled with concern.

The girl nodded, looking drearily at the child who had started crying and reaching out for her. John handed him over without any qualms and she looked stunned at him for a moment before burying her face in his brown hair and breathing in his scent. She sagged against the corner of the building, crying brokenly, and John pulled her to him and escorted her inside. Sherlock frowned at the mess that was being made of his evening, and sulkily followed behind.

Once Mary was situated in their flat with a hot cup of decaf coffee and some cold cuts, it being too late in the day for biscuits, her entire story came spilling out. She was the daughter of a wealthy, but highly snobby family, who had been horrified when she had turned up pregnant at the tender age of twelve. Mary claimed she’d been ill-used and a sixteen year old, highly manipulative and abusive, boy was the father. He denied all claim and had spread it around their private school that she was a girl of poor reputation. Her family, realizing they couldn’t silence the rumors, had disowned her and sent her away to live with some less well to do family members in London. Once the baby had been born she had been lowered to the rank of servant, and spent her days scrubbing the house, tending the garden, and waiting on the family, all while caring for her newborn child with no support whatsoever. It was when she overheard them discussing sending her child back to her parents once he was weaned that she had acted, deciding that she didn’t want her son growing up in that same stifling household.

“I don’t even _like_ boys,” Mary explained, “but if that came out it would be worse for me. That’s why I gave him to you. I knew he’d have a good life here. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bother.”

“You haven’t been, it’s good to know his history, and I’m glad I can tell him someday that his mother cares about him so much… that is… if you haven’t come to collect him?” John looked distressed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at his lover’s naïveté.

“No, I… I can’t take care of him. I just… I missed him so much!” Mary burst into fresh tears, holding the child tightly and rocking back and forth.

Sherlock stepped forward, bracing himself to deal with both the young girl and his lover’s protests.

“We’ll need you to sign adoption papers and provide any records you have of him.” Sherlock stated firmly.

“Yes, of course,” Mary sobbed as John glared at Sherlock for his lack of tact.

Mary had come prepared, and pulled out his birth record, which was handwritten and included no other medical information.

“He had no shots?” Sherlock asked angrily.

“I delivered at home by a family friend, and they didn’t allow him to see a doctor once he’d been cleaned up and put to my breast. We weren’t important enough.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and left to call their attorney. John pressed more food on Mary and asked her if she didn’t have anyone else to go to.

“I’m utterly friendless. I’ve been staying at a shelter since I doubt I can return to my Uncle’s without the baby they want to send to my parent’s. Matthew’s father saw to it that I was very unpopular and… er… what have you been calling him?”

“Wolfgang,” John replied, pulling a face, “Be grateful I won that argument, it was originally a tie between Ludwig and Johannes.”

Mary giggled and kissed his forehead, “That’s far more original than Matthew. He looks like a Wolfgang, don’t you Wolfy?”

Sherlock returned and sat beside John, deep in thought, as Mary played with Wolfgang, occasionally crying softly as he did something she’d never seen him do before.

“How old is he?” John asked and Mary did a quick calculation in her head.

“Ten months tomorrow,” She said proudly of her crawling child.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s temple and went to answer the door, letting their attorney, Mike Stamford, in with the paperwork he’d asked for. The man sat down and questioned Mary gently, while John and Sherlock entertained Wolfgang while she related her story once more. Stamford gave them a rather angry glance, letting Sherlock know he was as furious as they were.

“Would you be willing to tell the police what you’ve told us?” Stamford asked her gently.

“Why?” Mary asked, looking frightened, “Don’t they have a right to adopt Wolfy?”

“Yes and no, because you’re so young you legally can’t make this decision, but since you’ve been mistreated by your family we can push to have you divorced from them by taking them to court.”

“Oh, they hate me. They probably will just agree to it,” Mary replied flippantly.

“Then I’d like you to stay here while I drive out to see them, but I’d like the police involved anyway, just in case. I don’t want them trying to snag custody of Wolfgang out from under you.”

Mary paled and nodded her head in agreement, but once the police had come and gone she burst into tears again.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked, having come upstairs with some clothing for Mary to change into.

“Now I’ve really nowhere to go! They’ll never let me back at Uncle Jack’s place, and the shelter I’ve been at lately has closed for the night.”

“Nonsense, I’ve already made up the sofa downstairs,” Mrs. Hudson comforted, “You’ll be staying with me for a bit, just until you get settled.”

“We need a nanny for Wolfgang, anyway,” Sherlock informed her, “You’ll do nicely. You can help us raise him and I’ll home school you. I’ll have a second bed put in Wolfgang’s room until he’s older and then you can have the basement flat. It’s a bit dank, but you’ll probably be up here most days anyway.”

Sherlock decided the look of adoration on John’s face was worth all the legal mess he’d be wading through for the next year or so while they got that arrangement settled. So was the fantastic sex they had once Mary and Wolfgang were in bed.

Sherlock lay awake long after John had fallen asleep, though for once he didn’t climb out and head to the living room to compose music. He simply lay still, listening to the soothing rhythm of John’s heartbeat and the baby monitor’s soft huffing as their son stirred in his little cot upstairs. Around him the flat made it’s usual creaking sounds, the pipes tapped, the wind blew past the windows, Mrs. Hudson opened and shut a door, John snored softly, and Wolfgang crooned in his sleep.

This was what true music was, and Sherlock’s only despair was that no instrument could possibly capture the sounds of life.

_Fin._


End file.
